The Widening Gyre
by Janefaerie
Summary: A some-what fragmented re-visiting of Leroux's novel.
1. Chapter 1

It might have been a tomb; the tunnel swallowed all light and sound into silence. Rocks, ash, and webs adorned the way. No life. No breath. None but a lone figure in white slowly shuffling down the middle of the corridor.

Her arms hung by her sides, as if she had walked this path before, as if she could see in the dark, as if she was a shade already fading. Her gait proved slow but steady. Her eyes nearly glowed in the deep night of the tunnel, but not with fear or anxiety: a dim, sad glaze. She stumbled over a stone; her eye caught the tatters of her white dress, formerly a beautiful gown of white lace and chiffon, now a ripped and muddied version of itself. Her fingers aimlessly brushed the shredded pieces. It didn't matter anymore. It didn't matter that her hair had fallen from its intricate chignon to hang about her shoulders in plaited masses of gold.

He had loved her hair just so. He had often fawned over it, begging her to loosen a piece for his eye to covet and enjoy. Now it didn't matter.

She kept walking, ignoring the dull ache in her ankle and her head. She had been foolish. For a moment, she paused in the deep, looking ahead. Here she was at last: the way out. Black upon black, a great wall stood in her way. With a steady hand, she reached out into the dark; anyone else would have groped about, but she knew where to place her small hand. She found it: a small chink. He had told her exactly where to find it, with such a gentle voice.

"You'll find it, my dear," he had said, not daring to look her in the eye. He had been so meek of late.

"What if I don't find it?"

"But you will. And if you don't, all doors will open to you. They must." He had rubbed his thin fingers together, almost in prayer.

She had not understood him then, but she had also stopped trying. There was no need anymore.

"We must hasten. He will be waiting for you by now. You must change."

"No. I will go as I am."

"But it would not be seemly, my dear. You must change."

"I shall go as I am. We have long passed that which is seemly."

He had raised his eyes to hers, a flicker of something in them.

"I cannot hand you over to him in such a fashion."

"I shall go myself. There is no need for niceties."

He paused, gazing at her with glowing eyes.

"As you wish. Then let us go."

"You are coming, are you not?"

"Of course. But never fear. I shall walk behind you at a pace. You need not look back. I'm a soul that cannot be brought out of Hades, my dear Euripides, nor shall I hold you back from heaven."

"You must not speak so."

"Is it...unseemly?" His voice soft. It was not an insult.

"No. I...I do not wish for your torment. Never."

"Of course not."

"Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive."

"There is always something to forgive."

"Little one, you have a new way of talking." He gave the ghost of a smirk. "Come."

She had gone quiet then, like a child meeting strangers. He had let her find her own way in the dark, lingering a few steps behind her, a shadow to her whiteness. At times, she had become uncertain as to whether he was there or not. But she would not turn to look. She would not tempt his fate or hers any longer.

And now her hand had found the key, just as he said she would. Her lips parted in the dark. She froze. A flood of deeply interfused feeling poured over her heart. She remembered all and saw all of it pointing her here, the last place she expected to be: every turn, every secret, every gasp, every fall. Then his whisper behind her ear,

"Turn the key, my dear. To the right."

She caught her breath. If this was that last time to hear his voice, she would have him say it.

"Say...Say my name." She whispered, still with her back turned. "Bid me goodbye."

Silence.

Could he not bring himself to say it? After all this time?

Silence in the dark.

Then...

"Christine."

And her fingers turned the key, the door flung open, the light flooded her eyes, and Raoul embraced her like an angel retrieving a beloved lost lamb. That was to be the end of the story.


	2. Chapter 2

Everything began so innocently. If he had not lingered longer in the rafters, he would not have heard her singing softly to herself. But that night, she wandered the stage aimlessly after the opera, waiting for the little Giry and her mother. As she ambled back and forth in her ugly grey stuff dress, she began singing a meagre Swedish lullaby, something he had never heard before.

"Sleep in the glade where the wishing tree grows;

Starlight shall guard you when you're far from home.

Dream of things lovely while river song slows;

My love shall keep you safe."

She sang it so quietly. But it had been enough. He stopped, suddenly compelled to listen: the faintest of sounds. From his height aloft, he heard it as hardly a whisper. But such a heavenly whisper.

The song, simple and trite, had a mysterious lilt, and she sang it in her mother-tongue with a quiet ease, as if she wasn't even thinking about it. She moved at times to humming, which made her voice even quieter. Governed by impulse, he swung down a level to hear better, instantly enchanted. The sound brought a sliver of peace to his battered heart. His soul stilled as he listened, brought to awe at such a little sound. Why? What was it that had brought him to his knees? As he watched her from above, he could not see her face: just the tangled mess of her golden hair, pulled back into a long braid. His eyes flickered closed. Her voice, soft and meek, as it was, proved pure. More than pure, it proved undeniably beautiful at its core. True, she had not been trained; he could hear that. But he heard past all the imperfections. His mind spiraled away from him wildly. She had greatness in her throat; all the dreams of the power and glory that he had dreamed that the opera could be suddenly fired up into hope. Perhaps. Perhaps, she could be the prima donna that he had always thought should...Perhaps she was the angel and the glory designed for...Perhaps with her, he could make the world swoon at the beauty that he had created. They would die.

Silence.

She had stopped singing.

The Girys had come.

"Damn them." He muttered to the night.

The opera that evening had been particularly bad by his estimations. La Carlotta had strutted around the stage, not minding the set nor anyone who got in her way; so much amateur effort had shaped the entire production that evening. A self-indulgent, self-congratulating sham!

But the sound of this girl, this little thing, had redeemed it all in her tiny song.

Straining to listen to their conversation, he nestled in the dark, a bat watching his beautiful little bug chirp and chime for him-"before I swallow her up," he muttered.

"Shall we drop you at your Aunt's again, Christine?" Meg questioned with a disinterested air.

"Yes, if you please."

Christine. The angel had a name, and it suited that she bore the name of the savior.

He let them disappear into the night; he mused and fumed, muttering to himself above the stage. He stayed there for hours, listening to the dark, recalling the sound of her voice. Perhaps it was only a passing vision. Perhaps she was not what he imagined. Perhaps he was wrong. But he could not forget the feeling in his heart when he had first heard her. It had felt as if all his endless days and nights of sorrow and hatred had led to that moment. A tangible click in him had occurred. Whether he willed it or not, he knew; he was in some shape or form to love the voice of this Christine. Beautiful things should be loved.

He had never loved. He scarcely knew how to frame the idea of it. All his long years had given him fear and distain. He had never expected to find beauty, or even dare to think of it. What really was love? He hardly knew. But he knew what beauty was. He could recognize the real thing. And he, a dark demon, ought to know what heaven sounded like; he had spent enough years earning for it.

"Old fool." He whispered to the air. "Let her be. Let the angel sing undisturbed."


	3. Chapter 3

He spent the next week attempting to distance himself from the glory that had become the idea of Christine. The hours passed, and he busied himself with plaguing the stagehands and haunting the manager. Before, such things had been mere habit. Now they were torture. He soon sought out his music to comfort him. Yet even though he poured over his music and notes in an attempt to drown out the memory of her voice, he could not rid himself of the sound. It rang in his ears and in his heart, echoing back against his emptiness, stirring his thoughts. He had not even seen her face; it mattered little. The sound, it ought to have been enough.

But soon, too soon, he found himself creeping silently through the corridors, listening for a breath of her. Anything. He sought her out almost to reassure himself that he had heard rightly. Her voice, as he remembered it, had been lovely-too lovely to bear. And almost without thought, he sought it out once more.

One evening, he wandered in a thin passage, troubled at his own restlessness.

From the dark, a soft sob came through the wall.

He paused; who wept?

Whoever was crying, a woman, had her face up against a pillow of some kind, or pressed to a garment, for the sound proved indistinct. A small crack in the wall provided him with a sliver of sight. Who was crying? It sounded like a child.

His eye caught sight of a golden head resting fitfully upon white arms; a woman crying bitterly.

Then he heard her voice through the air:

"O father, I cannot bear this loneliness. What am I to do?"

It was she. He recognized her tones, even though she spoke into the cradle of her arms. And he was poised just so that if she raised her head he would see her face for the first time. Happy fate! Gentle chance.

He scarcely breathed. Would she speak?

With another deep sob, she raised her face to heaven, gazing into the gas lamp light, blinking back tears.

And he saw her face.

This was the face of the voice.

With a spasm, his hand clutched at his heart, that seemed to leap from his chest: her face, stained with tears, her blue eyes looking earnestly for a sign of heaven, her mouth soft and quivering, a deep pulse in her neck. She was more beautiful than he had ever imagined she could be. To his eye, she was divine. To anyone else, she might have been merely pretty, not extravagantly gorgeous, but pretty. But to him, she surpassed all thought, as she sat there with hands trembling, lips open in shivering prayer: a Beatrice, a Laura, a culmination of all the poets that he had read. And he, a poor Petrarch, an ugly Dante, would prove doomed to distance and solitude: he was sure of that.

What was he to do at the sight of such beauty! He fell to his knees and shook all over. The sight of it, of her, it was too much. How was he to bear it? How could one person be everything that he wished he might be? Beautiful, holy, innocent.

He tried hard not to gasp for breath. In shame and horror, he began to crawl away. How could he even dare to trespass upon her! He knew he needed to flee, to not soil her beauty with his own ugliness. It felt as if he had a glimpse of heaven's holy glory, when the only response is to cower and fear your own wretched state.

But then he heard her say aloud,

"Father, send me the angel of music. Send me what you promised." A sob renewed in her throat. "I...I shall surely die if you do not..."

He froze again. An angel of music? A thousand questions immediately flew through his brain. Too many. Deep curiosity filled him. What did she mean? What story was this? Who was her father? What was the angel of music?

If he were any other man, if he were a gentleman, he would quietly knock on her door, beg her pardon, then draw her out in conversation to know more of her. He would have gently opened his way into her mind-to know, to see, to hear. He would have played his part well and enchanted her with a soft kiss upon her white hand. Her eyes would have fluttered and her breath caught.

But he was not any other man.

He was Erik.


	4. Chapter 4

For as long as his stubborn will would let him, he stayed away from Christine. He banished himself to the shadows of his lower world, the realm that he himself had carved out, his small piece of hell. Yet, for him, it wasn't so terrible. The dark hid things. It could be soothing in the night, where no one can see you, where the shadows cast a new face for you, where silence and darkness meet and mingle in a curious and matchless solitude. His portion of hell, he had made a paradise of sorts. He had read Milton's Paradise Lost and had admired Satan's resolve to curse the light of heaven and forge a heaven in hell. In his bolder moments, he imagined himself as such a hero, desperate to shape a new life in the night, away from the probing eyes of the upper world.

But suddenly, it was no longer enough to rule his dark world alone. The more he tried to be content with his lot as the opera ghost, the more Christine's face and voice would flash upon his mind. He could not forget it, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many glasses of Tokay he drank. More, he also began to imagine what it would be like to be normal: to be like any other gentleman above. What would he want? The temptation to imagine his life as anyone else's was too great sometimes. When his resolve slipped, he would picture himself, able to walk hatless and maskless above on the street. He would pause and look in a shop window. He would sit on a park bench to watch the ripples in the pool and the pigeons squatting along the gravel. Innumerable little things. Beautiful little things. All tiny actions that he could never perform. Ever. Not without killing someone.

Sometimes, he wondered and marveled at how the face of some young girl could conjure such foreign thoughts in him. And then he would long to see her again.

Soon enough, he could not stay away.

Soon his impulse over took his mind.

He sought her out and found her easily.

For the next few weeks, he watched her, at a safe distance of course, but he watched every conversation, every turn of expression, every smile (though they were rare).

The company was in rehearsals for the next opera, "The Marriage of Figaro," and for the manager, it was to be his final full opera. The poor manager, quite overwrought with having a ghost as a co-manager, had finally announced that following "The Marriage of Figaro" he would retire, and there would be a variety gala which would instate the new managers. During all this, the company worked in full disfunction as usual: the chorus stumbled their way around the stage, La Carlotta showed up late for rehearsals if she came at all, and the dancers flounced their way across the front of the auditorium like uncoordinated geese. Christine, caught in the fray of it all, stood in the back of the chorus, attempting to keep up with the chaos.

As he watched her, he tried to read her thoughts in her face: a hard task. She concentrated so hard on her music, on staying in line, and on not being noticed. Often she would shrink to the back, hiding behind the larger women in the soprano section. She would not have herself be seen. He smiled at this.

"The little Beatrice wishes to hide. She is like me," He would whisper. But then he would catch himself. She was not at all like him. Not really. He would not allow himself to build bonds where there could never be any. Yet, she was so very interesting to watch. At times, when La Carlotta took the stage, he would look at Christine's face, and yes, he saw it. He saw the smallest glimmer of envy, of desire, in her eyes. She wanted to be in La Carlotta's place. She wanted to sing and bring beauty to the world. At the sight of that, he had to turn away from watching her for a moment; it brought such ideas into his head, what he might do with her voice if he could...But no. That was unthinkable.

That week, as he watched her, Christine appeared sullen and quiet. She hardly ever smiled or engaged with anyone. He found this not so strange; he himself lived in eternal solitude. But soon he was vexed. Her face looked increasingly sad as time went on. She grew pale, her face losing a rosiness in her cheeks. Irrationally, he began to fret about her; was she eating? What was wrong? Had something happened?

In his time watching her, he had learned enough of her living situation; she dwelt with an old lady, an invalid. Her father, long dead, a violinist, had left her with little, unfortunately. The only thing really left to her had been a love of the theatre and a desire to create beautiful things. More, she possessed a rare and untouched faith; for her, it was as if Darwin and all his controversial theories had never been published; her faith proved indestructible, or at least persistent, since she attended mass every morning and evening when she could.

But now, her face had lost its buoyancy, as if life was ebbing out of her.

After rehearsal, he lingered close to her in the shadows behind the wall, listening.

"Christine, are you coming tonight?" Jammes addressed her.

"No. No, I...I shall be going home tonight," Christine replied with a dead voice.

How it pained him to hear her voice so lifeless! What was wrong? His heart pounded in great throbs.

"Are you sure?" Jammes wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, "There shall be many young men there tonight."

"No, thank you. I shall simply go home. I have a pain in my head."

"Suit yourself."

"Goodnight."

The door closed. Jammes sauntered away.

From the shadows, Erik watched Christine as she sat unflinching in front of her dressing room mirror. With a blank expression, she looked at herself, as still as a statue. The ache to know her thoughts was excruciating. If only he might speak to her.

Then she spoke,

"Father, I have waited so long." Great tears formed in her eyes. "I have waited for a sign from you. Nothing has come. I cannot bear to wait any longer. My heart cannot bear this. I...I am so weak...Why do you not send me the angel of music? What have I done? Have I shamed you? Have I angered you?" She was trembling.

From the shadows, he saw her hand reach for her hand bag.

"Father," She continued, "I have thought on this. If you cannot or will not send me the angel of music,...then I will come to you instead."

Her hand held a bottle containing a dark liquid.

"No one shall miss me here, father. No one but Mamma Valeris, and even she need not be burdened with me."

Her fingers were twisting the cap of the bottle.

"Father, do not hate me for what I do. Do not refuse me entrance to heaven. Let me come to you now."

The bottle was coming to her lips. No! He would not let her die.

From the core of his soul, Erik began to sing. He sang out life, letting his voice surpass the wall and surround her. He let his voice caress her heart, her hair, her face. From the dark, he sang to bring her back to life.

The bottle dropped from her hand to the carpet, spreading an inky black puddle onto the floor. With an expression of near disbelief and transcendent surprise, she rose to her feet. His voice dared to come closer; it embraced her and drew her near. She closed her eyes, listening to the sound, harkening to the call, his call for her to live and not die.

But soon, a sob of his own crept into his throat, and he paused to let a small gasp escape. As silence fell around her, she awoke with a panic. He watched as she called out, as she opened the door and ran down the hall calling vainly for the owner of the voice. He waited for her to return, tears of his own running underneath his mask. When she did, he began to sing again,

"Rise. Rise. Rise from the dead.

Death is for none such as you.

Live. Live. Live once again.

Sing in the morning new."

She fell to the floor, tears streaming.

In the a quiet whisper, she sobbed out,

"Angel? Is that you at last?" Such an innocent lost child.

He stopped singing. Terror gripped his heart.

The silence was terrible.

She was waiting for an answer.

And though his mind bid him run for his life, his heart forced him to answer,

"Yes, child."


	5. Chapter 5

"O! It was as if the voice reached out from heaven itself and took hold of me," Christine excitedly told Mamma Valeris in sunshine of the late morning. All in all, Christine looked quite charming, dressed haphazardly as if she had not really thought of her appearance at all, her white dress wrinkled from too much wear, her long hair tied in a loose braid. Kindly, though perhaps a little dully, Mamma Valeris sat smiling at the young girl, her old fingers dripping with rings. A white kerchief adorned her head, and a purple taffeta dressing gown swathed Mamma in a dim glow. Her cheeks though worn with age proved rosy at Christine's news, and behind her spectacles, her eyes sparked.

"My dear, it must be the fulfillment of your father's promise!" Her voice warbled.

Christine excitedly interjected: "That is what I am coming to Mamma! I went out and looked for someone singing in the hallway, but no one was there. It came from inside the room! And I..I dared to ask if it was the angel at last. Mamma, he said, yes!"

Mamma Valeris brought her hands together in prayerful thanksgiving and with a broad innocent smile, looked up to heaven.

"God be praised!" She said in a sing-song manner.

"Mamma, do listen to the rest. The voice answered me and said that it was indeed the angel of music. It asked me what I sought-what I desired-what I was looking for. I replied that I longed to be given the gift of music that my father had promised me. The angel then said that he would do all in his power to awaken the gift that was already buried within me. Can you imagine!"

"The angel is a man?"

"Well his voice sounded like a man, but Mamma the voice was so beautiful, so lovely, so perfect. It can only be described as...well I don't know how to describe it to you. It was a most intoxicating sound."

"No mortal man can conjure that, let me tell you, no devil either," Mamma tapped her finger on her lap, quivering at the effort.

"No, and it did not sound like any man I have ever heard or imagined. I am sure it was the voice of the angel. It must be. What else could it be?"

"Yes of course! It must be!"

"But then Mamma, I grew so eager and brash. I dared to ask the angel to appear. I said to it, will you not show me yourself, angel?"

"O child! Did you? Did it show itself to you?" Mamma Valeris looked surprised.

Christine's face, ardent and flushed before, now looked pale. Her eyes glanced down, almost in needless shame.

"No, it did not." Her voice was soft.

"No?"

"No. It...the angel disappeared. I called out to it, but he did not answer me. I am so afraid now. I fear that I have offended him. I am such a little fool! I should have not dared such a trespass. Never! O I could utterly despise myself!" At that, Christine began to cry. Earnestly she tried to suppress her tears, but the fear proved powerful.

"Now, now, child! Do not distress yourself. Shh. Hush now. Dry your tears, you silly girl. There is no need to cry. The angel has not gone for good. God would not send an angel all this way from heaven merely to have him turn around at the soonest breach and return the way he came. Certainly not. Dear girl, I am sure that the angel was merely trying to teach you some humility, to value the voice for itself, to not become greedy. If you return to your drawing room, I am sure it shall once more appear to you. Don't be afraid. Explain your penance. God accepts the humble heart."

Patting Christine's hand, Mamma Valeris smiled, or rather grinned, at what she perceived as a real diamond of wisdom on her part. Christine kept silent, considering the words. At length, she seemed convinced, or at least determined to try and bring back the voice with repentance. Her desperate heart had sought this for so long that she was loathed to give up on it so easily. And death had seemed a viable option only hours before. Now that she had had a taste of life again, she longed to fight for it as best as she could.

"I shall try," she replied.

That night after rehearsals, Christine carefully waited till everyone was gone; kneeling in the middle of the room, she folded her hands and prayed aloud, her heart and hands trembling.

"...Most...precious angel...please, please forgive my proud and greedy heart last night. Forgive me for asking to see you. I should have been content to only hear and learn. Please have mercy and return to me. God knows how I have prayed for you to come to me. And now at last that you have come, I shall obey whatever it is that you tell me to do. Do return. Do forgive. I..." She paused. "I am a foolish girl. I promise that I shall be faithful to you, only return. Forgive."

She drew breath and listened. At first, silence covered her in a miserable haze. Such horrid silence. Was he really gone? Had she broken faith already before the promise had even begun?

Despair once more threatened to overcome her heart. Her body shook as she knelt there.

But then, from somewhere deep, a sound came. It began so soft, so gentle that Christine thought she might be imagining it. Enchanted immediately, she listened as the music grew and drew near. Soon it became recognizable.

A violin!

Her hands flew to her mouth as she bent over in gratitude and joy.

"Thanks be to God!" She whispered, her voice shaking.

Forgiveness and love shivered through the notes down to her, and she listened with a tearful smile, attempting to catch her breath.

Too soon, the song ended.

Her eyes shot open to see her empty room, the candles burning low and the gas light dim.

She would wait for him to speak. She would wait.

Then he did,

"Child, I am come back to you."

She nodded.

"Indeed, I never left...But Christine, you must not ask to see me with your eyes. It has to be enough to hear me. Faith is never truest when one can see all things. I must remain hidden. But more, in order for me to give you your heart's desire, the gift of music, I must have your devotion. I must have your love. I must have your faith. Nothing beautiful, nothing divine, Christine, is ever accomplished without these things. And Christine, if your faith proves true, you shall, my child, accomplish magnificent things, indeed. You shall become an instrument of heaven, meant to give mortals a taste of true music, the songs and sounds that come and fly around the throne of God. I have heard them and know them. I can give you this gift of beauty. If you give yourself to me, then all of Paris shall see and know true beauty. But you must obey and devote yourself to your art and to me. Shall you do this? Can you undertake this task?"

Christine's heart felt fit to burst from her chest.

"I can! I shall! I am yours to do with as you will!"

"I thank you for your pledge of faith, Christine. I shall not forget it. But do not misunderstand this, my dear child. When I say devotion, I mean it in all senses. You must not become distracted by earthly things. Nothing must seduce you. Keep to yourself. Treasure this heavenly secret until the time is right. Speak to no one of our dealings. If you stray, child, I cannot stay with you."

"O no! No! I shall be faithful! I shall be! Nothing will keep me from you!"

The voice paused, considering.

"It is settled then. Thus, the bond between thee and me is sealed. We shall astonish Paris."

Christine smiled, then asked: "What will you have me do?"

The voice sounded as if it was smiling, "With your leave, I shall teach you to sing."

From the shadows on the other side of the wall, behind the dark, behind a mask, a man was indeed smiling-for the first time in years, a real smile.


	6. Chapter 6

For three months, the voice and Christine became great friends. As a good and faithful child, Christine kept to herself, sang with her normal voice in rehearsal, and only spoke to Mamma Valeris of her lessons with the angel of music (at his permission). Every day, in the morning before anyone would come to the theatre, Christine would enter her dressing room, a tiny space in an inconspicuous corner of backstage, and greet the voice with a smile.

"Good morning, my dear Voice! Are you well today?"

And he would be waiting for her: indeed, Erik would wait there at least two hours ahead of time, sometimes creeping into her room to simply sit there, or sometimes to secretly lay a flower on her table: stealing in like a shy lover. He did not know where it was all leading, but he found himself powerless to stop the advance. Christine was becoming like air, like water. It at once alarmed and charmed him. She held such power over him; he would do whatever she bid him to do-even to kill. And Erik would not allow himself the time to think on the situation; if he had, his mind would have told him to disappear, to remove himself completely, to run away. But she, in her innocence and faith, in her youthful eagerness, in her loving nature, had ensnared him so quickly that he found it to be a delicious trap, a treasured captivity.

"Good morning, Christine. Yes, I am well. How did your yesterday fare? How are the preparations for the gala coming along?" He knew full well the state of the gala, but she so delighted in telling him everything on her heart and he so delighted in listening that it mattered not to him.

"Well, all of yesterday we worked on "Funeral March of the Marionette". Monsieur Gounod himself shall be conducting it. We were told today that all the great composers shall be coming to conduct their pieces. O, it shall be such a magnificent gala. And we were told too that La Carlotta shall be singing Margarita and the final trio from Faust!"

The voice stifled a cough.

"Shall she really?" Erik ground his teeth. He bore a particularly strong loathing for the leading soprano. Her arrogance and superiority of course were repulsive; however, what irked him most was that all her elitism was unfounded. She was not talented. He often thought that she forced her voice out like a cow moaning in a barn. If she had been worth listening to, he might have forgiven her ample pride, but since she proved in his mind a poor imitation of an artist, and since she also harbored an antipathy for Christine (as he had discovered), for Erik, La Carlotta was the enemy incarnate.

"Yes!" Christine gushed. Though she did not like La Carlotta, Christine did admire her and had often confessed to the voice that she envied the Spanish diva's position in the company. For so long, Christine had sung in the chorus, working hard to be noticed. Eventually, she received small parts, once even playing Siebel in Faust, but Christine's voice had not been sharpened to its fullness then. She had received mediocre reviews, some calling her a tolerable enough actress, but a singer too green for the opera.

"And you? Shall you have a special part?" The voice asked with a guarded gentleness.

"Well, Monsieur Debienne told us that they would hold auditions for a few soloists."

"You must audition, child."

"Shall I? I...Am I ready?"

They had spent countless hours, precious ones, refining her voice, singing together, mingling their voices in radiant harmony. Christine would later say that those lessons where resplendent, unspeakably beautiful-alarmingly rapturous.

Indeed, sometimes Christine feared the power of the angel of music. The beauty of the voice at times seemed to overtake her, to sing inside of her, rather than outside, as if somehow the angel had entered her and was quivering there in her with song. It was frightening, though thrilling. Did angels possess people like demons did? She had once attempted to voice her fears to Mamma Valeris, but the old woman had dismissed her trepidation as doubt and had encouraged the girl to open herself up further to faith and to heaven's will.

For Erik, those lessons had only enflamed his ardor for her voice. More, he had become bolder as time went on, daring to throw his voice around, sometimes into her throat. Immediately shame and self-reproach would plague him, but his restraint had altogether vanished. She was too beautiful to him, and he merely wished to be closer to where she was. He had even taken the pains of opening the wall behind her mirror and inserting a glass of special properties; he could see in, but she could only see herself. A trick. A trap? He rationalized that it was to see her better and to feel as if he were actually in the room with her; as her teacher, he needed to be so. But truth be told, he fashioned it just so that he might watch and enjoy her more fully. The lie had become so tantalizing. Sometimes he would briefly caress the glass if she came near. Once, as the voice, he even told her to step close to the mirror so that she might look at her posture. She, ever obedient to the angel of music, had done so at once, standing earnestly, staring unknowingly straight at him. His hand had brushed the glass then. It was going too far. He knew it. But poor fool, yes, he felt helpless to stop.

"My child, you are ready. But the world needs to be ready for you. Certain things must be set into order so that the way may be clear for you. I shall be your St John the Baptist. I shall make a straight path for you."

She blushed deeply, wishing to disappear.

"You must be bold, Christine. No fear. Love casteth out fear, does it not?"

"Yes. Perfect love does."

"Then love, Christine. Love music as I love..."

"As you love music?"

"Precisely. There is no need to fear. You shall astonish Paris. The time for waiting is nearly over. Soon we shall triumph. Soon a bit of heaven will descend to earth and live within your throat."

Sometimes the voice said things that shook her, thrilled her, and terrified her.

And poor child, she was alone, cut off from the advice of all but simple Mamma. Sometimes the loneliness of her situation plagued her, but that would only drive her in confidence to him more.

"Is it a sin to fear this?" She asked.

"To fear what, my dear?"

"To fear what you say. This greatness."

"All greatness has a holiness to it. Holy fear is right and good."

"I do not feel worthy of this at all. I feel like such a weak and puny vessel for God's work. I do not feel suited to the task. What have I to offer?"

"Whether or not you are such things does not signify. God has chosen you. I have chosen you. I know what you have to offer even if you do not. And love shall be enough."

"To cast out fear?"

"Yes, to cast away all fear and all that torments."

"Love shall be enough."

Erik learned so much of her heart and soul in those three months. In the mornings with him, she would confess her heart's deepest longings and pains: mostly the grief of her father's death. No more did she confess to a priest. She showed him everything; nothing was hidden from him, for she, despite all her fear, held to her faith that he as the angel of music from God meant her well.

And he did mean her well. He did...in his way.


	7. Chapter 7

At length, the night for the gala arrived.

And Christine trembled in her dressing room, having been told a number of things all at once: that Carlotta was no where to be found, that the gala was starting without the Spanish diva, that Monsieur Gounod had arrived, that the house was packed, and also that she would be singing Marguerite.

A clear and decided shift had occurred: a shift in her favor.

The triumph approached. It was so near. And it terrified her.

She wished that the dressing room attendants would leave so that she might call out to the voice in desperation. How she needed his reassurance! But he had spoken so little as of late.

Erik had been uncommonly busy up until that night; there was so much to do to prepare the way for his darling protege.

Two weeks prior to the gala, he had increased the pressure upon the manager; indeed, Erik determined that the manager's exodus from the opera business would not be a tranquil one. Menacing but polite notes appeared, demanding that management reconsider their audition decision, requesting that Christine take Carlotta's place as chief soloist soprano.

In retrospect, Christine's audition had not gone as well as he had hoped. In his mind, it was her chance for them all to finally see what she was capable of. He had tuned his precious little songbird; now it was their turn to acknowledge it. However, she had been so pale when she went to the auditions.

"What is the matter, child?" he had asked her.

"I am afraid. I..."

He nearly lost his patience.

"My dear, nothing shall stop you. They simply need to see it. They need to hear it."

And when she had sung for them, they did seem genuinely impressed. Yet, her nerves had held her back from true glory, that dazzling sound that so far only he had heard and loved.

"Mademoiselle, have you been taking lessons? We haven't heard you sing like this before." They asked her, eyebrows raised.

"Yes, I have, from a great teacher." The secret remained secure.

They had promised her a chance to sing one of two small arias from Romeo and Juliet: short, easy. Nothing too severe. Nothing too fantastic.

And Erik had never been more furious.

Then to only increase his fury, the boy appeared.

One afternoon, Christine had come merrily into her dressing room, eager to speak with her angel. And Erik, at first, had dared to imagine that her face bore such a happy expression because she so delighted in his company.

But to his horror and surprise: "O dear voice, you will never guess who I have just seen!"

"Who child?" His curiosity was instantly baited by her expressions: a small sliver of jealousy, a toxin already seeping through his frame.

"Do you remember me telling you of when my father took me to the seaside one summer?"

"Yes, of course. I remember everything you say, Christine."

"Well, I told you of how I once lost my scarf on the waves and a little boy saved it for me."

"Yes?"

"Well, I have just seen that boy again, only he isn't a boy now of course. He is all grown. Raoul-the Vicomte de Chagny. We became such good friends that summer when we were little. I had no idea that he was so rich. He never spoke of it that summer. We simply played and laughed and sang and listened to father play the violin. I never dreamed that I would see him again, though."

"Where did you see him?"

"In the gallery. He became a patron for the arts yesterday and visited just this afternoon with his brother."

"And did he see you?"

"No. I doubt that he would recognize me. It was so long ago, and besides he is an aristocrat and needn't pay attention to me."

"I see."

"...Angel, do you think I ought to speak to him?"

Erik did not answer. His heart now pulsed full of raging green jealousy. It was curious how suddenly the feelings of the heart could turn so putrid and base in no time at all. He could not bear to look on her face and think that she was smiling not for him but for that boy. It was unbearable. He fled and left her to silence and desperate confusion.

When he came back the next morning to her sullen, tear-stained face, his voice came out in sad chords:

"Christine...Christine... I am your angel of music, and I hope that I am your dearest friend, but, child, you have given your heart to another. You have at the last hour been seduced by an earthly object. If your heart remains so unfaithful, I cannot stay with you." So desperate was he to maintain her fidelity to him that he stooped to base and clear manipulation.

Immediately, Christine burst into tears, swearing that she did not care for the boy, that he was nothing to her, merely a memory.

"I have been faithful! I have not strayed! What have I done?"

"I see your heart, Christine."

"Then hear it too! I swear to you-I do not love him. He was an old friend. I have not turned away from you! Please! Please do not leave me!"

She wept so bitterly that his jealousy abated briefly.

"Very well. I believe you. I shall stay with you. Hush now, dear one. I shall not leave. You shall not be left alone."

He comforted her as tenderly as he could, keeping the snake of jealousy hidden. He saw now what brutal power he held over her, and the thought became a dangerous one. It led him to places that he had never dared to go in his mind before.

No, he would not take out his anger on her; she must have comfort and love, all gentleness.

Instead, he had taken it out on the entire company. Suddenly dead rats appeared in everyone's dressing rooms in the most unlikely places; the lights would flicker at uneasy times; scenery and sets would move on their own; rafters would come loose; ballerinas would speak of hearing a whispering sinister voice calling out to them from no where; even the manager, on his way out, looked harassed and haggard. Erik's multifold wrath began to seep through the whole opera house. But the height of it, the thing that essentially secured Christine's place as Marguerite that night, was Joseph.

Erik despised him, as he despised most of them, but that one night had led Erik's ire to a boiling point. It had been quite hot that evening. Wandering in the rafters, supremely angry, he had been muttering to himself in fits and fumes. He was trying to be a gentleman with them all; he was trying to be decent and reasonable with the fools. But all they would do is run around like idiotic children, screaming about the opera ghost instead of listening to him. And though Christine seemed faithful, he was full of doubts. as much as he knew her heart, he could not know her thoughts. Her mind was shut to him. It was maddening! All his efforts might come to nothing. All his hopes for Christine!

He would not let her be disappointed. With an alarming eagerness, he had set about to do his best to make the way for her. He would do anything. And that night in the flash of a moment, he had devised the best way to catch them all and get their attention: a death.

Some one would die.

And it just so happened that Joseph Buquet had ambled by, half drunk, singing a refrain from Gounod.

Easy.

The news of Buquet's mysterious demise spread quickly through the theatre; everyone suddenly became much more acutely alert. Something was wrong. In the manager's office, Erik had left a final note:

Monsieur,

You should listen to me. I would not wish for more unforeseen consequences to befall you.

Your _obedient_ servant,

OG

With such implication, it had been enough to send the manager to consult with his diva, to advise her that for her own safety she ought not to perform, or at least perform considerably less than planned. Of course, La Carlotta had not received well the suggestion that she relinquish her spotlight to a novice. In fact, it had spurred an attack of fury in which the hot-headed soprano had flung everything within her arm's reach to the ground-even her small Pekinese:

"I shall not be bam-boo-zeeled by some ghost, by some bit of misty air! I will sing! Nothing will stop me! I don't care who he is! And I don't care who she is, either! This disgusting little Daae! I don't care!"

Poor manager had been left with quite a predicament. But Erik had taken care of it for him; with a few ample drops of opium in La Carlotta's tea at her apartment, she soon found herself too tired and, frankly, unable to stand up. All she had wanted was to sleep. Damn the opera and her waiting carriage. She was La Carlotta and could sleep when she damn well wished. And she did, but really she slept when _he_ wished.

And certainly when the manager heard that Carlotta was indisposed to come, he had known the immediate course of action that he must take, or else. Mademoiselle Daae to replace La Carlotta: to sing both Romeo and Juliet arias, and finally the selections from Faust. It had all come about at the last second exactly as Erik wished.

And as he watched Christine fret in her dressing room, he smiled.

"You must love, Christine. Let love take away your fear," he willed her to hear him, even though he merely whispered it.

After a few moments, she sat down, dressed in a massive mauve satin gown. Her breath came in short gasps; she was on the edge of greatness and pure discovery. Then she looked at herself in the mirror. With a start, she stood and gazed at her image. Her hair hung in careful ringlets, parts of it plaited around her head, strands of it hanging down her back; a small cluster of white roses had been pinned over her heart; the gown and its underlying corset held her snugly, and the dress itself seemed to flow around her form like a lavender river. She looked beautiful.

But Christine was not thinking of her own beauty; she was looking straight into her own eyes, staring, daring. The maids looked at her as if she were going off her head.

"Christine," she spoke to herself, "Let it conquer fear. Let it. Give yourself over to it. Be it."

And a calm of self-understanding spread over her face; she even smiled.

"I shall make you proud tonight, father."

With that, she turned on her silken heel and took to the stage, a bolder soul.

That night, Christine Daae sang, as some would later say, with all the power and beauty of an angel ascending.

As the final notes of Faust left her throat, she felt her very soul shift upwards and out of herself. It seemed as if heaven opened and the face of her father appeared, smiling with pure joy. But the song ended, and Christine fell in a faint, having believed that God himself had descended in glorious light.

Erik was irrevocably in love.

Everyone else believed they had witnessed a transfiguration: the young soprano, a musical genius, glorious.

And Raoul remembered her. Raoul remembered everything.


	8. Chapter 8

"Damn him! Damn him!" Erik tore at the curtains that hung in his farce of a sitting room late that night. The fabric resisted his fingers for a moment, then split, sending a satisfying shredding sound through the air.

"Damn his _ardent_ eyes, his perfect _face_, his...honest heart! Damn him! How I hate him! I hate him!" Erik's voice was pure poison as he roared and remembered what had happened.

Erik had watched as Raoul, fresh-faced, earnest, and innocent, had pressed his way politely but fervently through the crowd at Christine Daae's dressing room door. Erik himself had not yet spoken to his dearest nightingale; she was still attempting to gather herself after being carried off stage in a cloud of applause, tears, cheers, and divine collective love.

She had been triumphant! Utterly! They had loved her!

But for Erik, the victory was instantly soured by the presence of the Vicomte. At first, Erik's sole attention had been on Christine and her unconscious form. He wished he could be the one to wake her, to hold her hand as the dressing room maids did, to stroke her temple as the doctor did.

Then through the throngs of people, the young Vicomte shyly peeked his head in the door: a mere boy really, with messy blonde hair, bright eyes, and a face that looked as if it had not yet seen a first real deep sorrow. He was beautiful, sincere, and true in heart-a surprise considering his class. And he flew to Christine's side, gingerly taking her limp hand in his, with eyes that grew wide with wonder and concern.

Slowly, she woke.

Her eyes fell upon Raoul, and a vein in her neck pulsed. Her eyes shifted quickly to the doctor, and she quietly smiled:

"Hello" She said meekly. "...Forgive me, but what are you all doing in my dressing room?"

A flurry of voices had then fallen upon her: words of affirmation on all sides. Men. Women. All seemed to be there, pressing into her room, wanting a piece of her glory.

That was when one of the plump, older maids and the doctor began hustling people out, the maid shoving and pinching indiscriminately, her motherly instinct. Erik was grateful; his dear lily-white Christine needed room to breath. But to his deep horror, the Vicomte stayed in the room with the doctor. Guffaws and laughter could be heard from the hall as the doctor closed the door and turned to the faint girl.

The maid looked scandalized by the Vicomte's presence.

For a moment, Christine closed her eyes and put her hand to her head: such a picture of sadness and spent glory. A soft groan came from her lips. Erik pressed hard against the glass to see her face-to watch her countenance. Would she prove faithful at last? Now that the boy was close, would she forsake her angel?

Slowly, Christine turned her eyes to the Vicomte; in a dull voice,

"Monsieur, who are you?"

The Vicomte gave a small smile, such a winning expression, one of subtle delight. He had been patiently waiting outside her door, hoping that the crowd would disperse; his memories of the dear little friend, with golden fair hair and merry blue eyes, had returned to him the moment he saw her name in the program and her form on the stage. He had loved her those years ago, as little boys do. And he was sure that he loved her now. How could anyone not love her after such divine song?

"Madamoiselle Daae," he began, bowing a little, taking her hand and kissing it softly (his best and probably first attempt at seduction), then coming close to her to whisper, "I am the boy who so long ago rescued your scarf from the waves of the sea."

The doctor, having seen his fair share of shy lovers in his time, merely rolled his eyes and set about pouring the Mademoiselle a glass of water.

Raoul's eyes sparkled; he had spoken with such clear delight to her, convinced that it would start a fire of memory in her. In his mind, he had hoped that her face, so tired now, would come alive with the recollection: that she would recall all their secret childhood joys and love him at once.

Erik saw exactly what the Vicomte wanted and hated him for it. It felt like watching a stranger eye and pluck at your best, most beloved, and only rose in the garden. He longed to cry out and break through the mirror. Tears brimmed so near the surface. Why had he come? The Vicomte loved her; that was obvious.

Christine blinked. For a moment, she said nothing. Then, she laughed,

"Monsieur, I don't know what you are talking about."

The Vicomte looked immediately surprised and taken aback. He began to mumble and blush:

"I ...well...you see, when we were...you do not remember?..."

It had all dissolved quite quickly from there, with him departing confused and embarrassed.

After he had gone, Christine had steadied herself against the table, then:

"Help me get out of this dress, Helene. I cannot breathe."

Modesty made Erik turn away his eyes, but he listened as she spoke with her attendants.

"Mademoiselle, you were superb! Your voice went quite through me!"

"Thank you. That is kind of you to say." She sounded increasingly tired and almost irritated.

Eventually, the dress and its trappings came off, a gilded cage, and Christine put on her white dressing gown, sitting down at the table to take down her hair. Usually, Erik delighted in this particular ritual, but tonight he was aching to speak out, to rage at her, and to kill him.

Finally, Christine put down her last pin, her hair a flowing cloud of gold.

"Helene, thank you. I shall do well enough now. You may as well go help someone else. Thank you so much. I wish to be alone."

"Yes, mademoiselle. If you are sure you are well."

"I am but tired."

"Good evening then Mademoiselle. I...Your voice was truly beautiful."

"Thank you."

The door closed. Christine sat still in the silence looking down at her hands.

Erik's heart throbbed with too many sensations; it took much ado to avoid bursting out in fury and love there and then. She was so still.

Without raising her eyes, she spoke quietly,

"Did I please you?"

He gathered his thoughts; how was he to respond?

"Voice? Are you here?"

"I am here Christine."

"And have I passed the test?"

"What do you mean, child?"

"I mean...well, I mean did my singing please you? Am I worthy?"

"O Christine, heaven does not have angels who sing sweeter than how you sang tonight. I cannot begin to tell you the height of my praise and joy." Yet his voice had a tinge of sadness in it. She heard it.

"And the other test?" she asked.

"He came. He knew you. He found you. Show me _your_ heart, Christine."

"You know my heart," her voice trembled. "You know me! You know. How could I betray you, even now?"

"He is handsome. Surely your love has departed from this place and me."

"How can you say such things?" She had tears now. "You know where my love lies."

"Yes, I know you love music Christine, but..."

"But, what? What must I do?"

"Christine...you must love me!"

"How can you speak as if I do not! When I sing only for you!"

Exhausted from arguing, she put her head in her hands, torn and tossed by some foreign, overwhelming feeling. What did he want from her?

For a moment, neither said anything. Erik watched her breathe and sigh.

"Are you very tired?" He asked quietly.

She shot back, almost with a sharpness to it: "Oh, tonight I gave you my very soul, and I am dead. There is nothing left."

He felt repentance immediately for having pushed her.

Then, gently, soothingly, he spoke, throwing his voice to embrace her as he had done many times: "Your soul is a beautiful thing, child. And...I thank you...No emperor or king ever received so fair and lovely a gift. The angels wept tonight."

She sighed.

"Have I proved my worth to you? At last?" She whispered.

"This cannot be the last test. The world is wicked." He whispered back. "But your fidelity, your faith, Christine, is the best thing about you. Child, tonight, you are mine, and nothing of earth nor hell can change that."

She had gone home after that, leaving quickly to avoid everyone. Erik had stayed behind, wondering what the boy would do. And sure enough, the boy stole into the dressing room, doubtless expecting to find someone there. Erik nearly laughed at the boy's confusion and brash courage as he searched around the room, calling out for what he must have thought was a lover hiding.

"He is looking for me. Fool, you cannot find me." He thought to himself, seething in sudden, unspeakable wrath. "I am her trap-door lover. Catching and never caught. And monsieur, I will catch you up if you so much as even dream to pursue her." He whispered.

In the dark of his own house, Erik stood, shredded curtains in his hands, breathing heavily as he surveyed the wreckage of his ire.

"The damn fool!" he muttered. Then a smile, almost wicked, crossed his features behind the mask. "What if? ...Yes...What if it were possible?"

An idea had struck him: what if he could bring her away from all of it, away from _him_. Only for a while. Surely she would forget the boy. What if she could be brought...down underneath the opera house? Down to him. Anger and jealousy had made his rationality wild. And for the first time, he went to look at the extra guest rooms he had built formerly as a joke to himself.

"This one would do nicely." He said, softly. He would have to secure new curtains.


	9. Chapter 9

The following weeks were ones of great activity at the opera house; the new managers, Armond Moncharmin and Firmin Richard, had their confused hands full of notes from the opera ghost. Erik was doing his best to break in the new heads of state by teaching them early on that they were not heads of state: their office was merely nominal; he, in truth, held the reigns of power. The former managers had known it, and now Moncharmin and Richard needed to learn it as well. But Erik found it increasingly difficult to charm their allegiance; their incredulity at the opera ghost's existence left him irritated and distracted. There was simply so much to do.

And at this point, distraction would not do. Christine needed more attention than ever before. Try as he might, he could not slay the snake of jealousy that had bitten him so deeply. Every day at their lessons, which despite her triumph he insisted that they continue, Erik would begin not with a gentle word or an instruction but with anxious interrogation.

"Is your heart still faithful?" He would ask, immediately, to Christine's ever increasing inward distress. Though she answered him quietly, inwardly she was writhing with anxiety and turmoil. Her face grew pale again. Her eyes looked glazed for lack of sleep. Yet, Erik somehow failed to notice these signs of fatigue, or rather if he did, he ignored them, fearing that it indicated a love-sick heart in denial. He was far too afraid, carried away by a torrent of frustrated love. He hardly knew what he was doing half of the time.

"It is faithful," she answered.

"How can I be sure of you, Christine? You grow so quiet. You no longer confide in me as you once did. Do you doubt heaven? Do you harbor a secret passion?"

"I do not. I merely look upon the vicomte as an old friend. There is no danger in that."

Erik had noticed letters arriving for Christine; no one had written to her before, but since her victory at the gala, innumerable dandies had conceived a grand passion for Daae. Of course, they should. Who could not? But it was one particular seal that Erik noted amongst the stacks of perfumed letters: a seal that Christine always tried to casually hide and then place in her handbag. He knew that the vicomte was writing to her. The boy simply would not relent.

But then, neither would Erik.

As time went on, Christine had become less and less like herself. The new life of fame that had been thrust upon her brought little joy in its reality. The stage had been one thing: glorious and transcendent. But the aftermath proved dreadful. Countless causes sought her attention; the best houses desired her talents. And though it all was perhaps flattering, when she sang for the Duchess Du Zurich (her first and only private appearance), Christine hardly spoke to anyone before or after her performance; indeed, once finished her last aria, she curtsied and ducked out the back door to her waiting carriage without so much as a word to anyone, though they all longed to talk to her. She hardly knew herself anymore, especially when she sang. The voice and its influence had penetrated her consciousness so deeply that she felt he watched her everywhere, expected her best at all times, and above all kept her heart under the strictest surveillance lest she stray and offer it up to an earthly idol. She dared not speak to anyone lest it displease him. Most of all, she shunned any place that Raoul might be, fearing for him that wrath might fall if their paths crossed. The vicomte had written her such gentle and tender letters, honorable, innocent, ardent, sincerely requesting a meeting, a word, a brief conversation. But she dared not reply.

Many had speculated on her shyness, putting it down to her stage anxieties and her freshness.

She was so young and new; of course, she would be painfully shy.

But for Christine, it was much more complicated.

"If you see him as an old friend, then you would not avoid him so, nor would you hide his letters," Erik insisted.

"I have not been avoiding him. You, yourself, know that I have been so busy with engagements. I cannot see anyone."

"Ah! Yes, but you specifically avoided the charity gala a few nights ago, Christine. You knew he would be there. Yes, I know he was there."

Christine looked dreadfully ill, but she refused to faint, nor did she even quiver at the omniscience of the angel of music. Of course, he knew everything. How could she hide her own heart? Yet how could he not believe her? Where was his gentleness?

"If you did not love him, you would not hide from him, Christine." Erik's fingers were twisting around the hem of his jacket, the treads strained.

Christine rose from her chair:

"Enough. That will do." She looked worn out. "I am going to Perros tomorrow to pray on the grave of my father. I shall ask Monsieur Raoul de Chagny to accompany me. As an old friend, and one who knew my father, I deem it fair and right that he might come."

Erik felt a throb in his throat; what was she doing?

He maintained his calm tone: "As you wish. But I shall be in Perros too, for I go where ever you go Christine. And if, my dear I find you worthy of me, if you have proven yourself to me and been faithful, I shall play _The Resurrection of Lazarus_ on your father's violin at midnight. Come to the graveyard. If you hear silence, then you shall never more hear my voice. If music, then I and heaven are well pleased."

To her, it felt like a terrible ultimatum-a tremendous risk. But now she had declared herself; she could not go back. How had this all turned to such dread? She hardly knew or understood.

In Perros, all three of them suffered.

In the shadows, where she thought they were perhaps unseen, she had told Raoul,

"The angel of music is real, and he has come to me."

Raoul had been cruelly incredulous, stung by her treatment of him over the past month, claiming that someone must be duping her poor mind.

"Someone is making a game of you, Christine," he had said. And to his cold critiques, Christine had felt an interfused grief. How was she to bear this?

O she loved him, of course. He was a good man: one that she ought to love. It came so easily. In her mind alone did she confess that she had loved him since she first saw him again in the gallery: his easy grace and untarnished goodness. He was still the kind little boy that she remembered with all his dreamy optimism and careless joy. But he was no longer a boy. He was a young man, and she worried that he might cherish a passion for her that would perhaps go deep. He seemed persistent enough. If he cared less for her, then he would not have kept seeking her out or bearing what he perceived from her as silent scorn. She loved him, and it terrified her. The angel must never know the truth. He must never see it in her face.

So caught was she. Christine loved the boy, but she also believed in the angel. How could she abandon that which her father had petitioned God to send to her? What kind of a daughter or a Christian would she be if she so easily gave up on heaven for earth? And yet, the voice had become so powerful, so potent, so preoccupied with her fidelity. She felt trapped and carried along a current, helpless. The voice was beautiful, and he had been her friend in the darkest moment of her life. She could not lose him. The voice was everything, had given her everything. What was she without him? Simply Christine. What use was that when heaven had so clearly demanded her allegiance in this way?

With careful deliberation, knowing that the voice must be watching and listening, she had navigated her time with Raoul: answering yet deferring his questions.

"Someone is making a game of you," Raoul had taken her elbow.

But his accusation had stung her faith.

"Leave me! Leave me!" Could he not understand or believe? It broke her heart.

She ran.

And that evening, Erik played _The Resurrection of Lazarus _to her milky white form in the night, his ears still ringing with the sound of her voice sharply snapping out "Leave me!" to the boy. His delight had been unholy. But she had proven herself faithful to the angel, to the voice. And he loved her.

From his place in the shadows beside the tombstone, he looked on her face, so pale, drawn, stained with tears, caught in the ecstasy of faith as he played for her. She had chosen divine love-an exquisite love.

The song ended. He shivered in the cold as Christine returned to the inn.

Then he saw _him_! That infernal boy!

Erik wished he had a heart of ice so that he might kill the boy then and there, but his spirit had been too elated by Christine's fidelity that it did not matter whether the boy lived or died; Christine was faithful. That was enough. Instead, as quick as a shadow, Erik made for the church doors and further in to the altar; no one looks for the devil in the holy of holies.

With a sigh, he eased off his mask for a moment, his face aching from the pressure.

A madonna and child looked down on him from the stained glass in the moonlight, the Christ child smiling meekly down on him, almost as if to say that grace could be possible.

Then, suddenly, Raoul's hand spun him around, and the rivals looked upon each other face to face. Certainly, at such a ghastly sight, Raoul fainted in fright like a child. With distain, Erik flung him upon the altar, a lamb to be sacrificed to love.

"Let the Madonna watch over you. I shall not." He muttered.

Before leaving, Erik leaned down to Raoul's ear:

"But she's mine, you fool."

All the while, Christine had sat in her room trembling, hoping that Raoul was sleeping and that the angel would not harm him, despite his lack of belief.

Then from the dark, he came.

"My child," the voice said to her in such loving tones.

Christine said nothing. She merely sat in stillness, basking in the gentle sound.

"Dearest one, you have done well. Now, flee temptation. Return to Paris with all haste. Do not stay another night here. A carriage waits outside for you." Erik had seen to it all; indeed, Erik himself drove the carriage back to Paris, transporting his beloved little songbird safely back to its cage.


	10. Chapter 10

_Faust_ was an ironical but appropriate choice. When Moncharmin declared that _Faust_ would show at the end of the week he could not have known the true suitability of his selection: a story of a man cursed to ever desire but never have, to love a woman who becomes an angel, to die damned (depending on the version, of course). Since the gala, Richard and Moncharmin had noticed that a kind of revival of _Faust_ was in order since the crowd had fallen in love with it so passionately; whether it was Christine that the audience loved, or the music, or the scandal of a protege overtaking an established diva, it mattered little to the management. However, soon, the casting proved an ordeal; this opera ghost impostor simply would not rest until he got his way: first box 5 and then the cast. Both Moncharmin and Richard began to feel increasingly indignant that their opera house was not _their_ opera house.

And Erik, continually irritated by the insipid attitudes and decisions of the management, wrote note after note, eventually descending to frank threats. His anger, formerly cooled by his success in Perros, had stirred once more at the thought that his Christine should be once more shelved as a novelty piece, to play Siebel yet again. He wanted his darling jewel to be shown as the best of the best, not as an additional player. It would not do. Erik spent hours late into the night with his pen and ink, writing numerous notes-some to Carlotta, many to the management, and one to the boy, warning him to cease his pursuit of Christine. This one he planned to deliver himself to the vicomte, with all the ominous power that he conjure.

Christine was writing notes too; or rather, she only wrote one brief letter to the vicomte. Following her trip back from Perros, Christine had cloistered herself away at the advice of the voice and by her own will. She had no desire to see anyone at all. Indeed, she fell a trifle ill a few days after her encounter with the angel at her father's grave. The event had so impressed on her the gravity of her situation and her need to remain obedient to the angel's will. Yet, the strain had become too much; she grew paler, and one morning could not go to lessons at the opera house. In vain, she had tried to rise out of bed, but she could not find strength to sit up. The voice had not answered her when she called out to him, and Christine dared to imagine that he was not actually there with her in that moment. It was a strange kind of feeling to be out from under the watchful eye of a heavenly being. Immediately, Raoul's kind face floated into her mind, and she took up pen and paper to write. Her letter, gentle, subtle and endearing, warned Raoul to save his own life by staying away from her. She tried not to be too fond; sentiment would not aid things:

"If you love me, you will not seek me out."

How hard it had been to pen those words. She _did_ want to see him; she wanted to speak with him, to hear him laugh again, to remember her father with him. She wanted him to want her, to desire her company, to delight in their time. And she knew that he already did, even though she had been horrid to him at times: in his growing affection, so clear, there was immense danger.

As Christine wrote, she often paused, almost as if she heard something and was on alert. It was all most distressing: to fret that an angel would and could descend in holy anger at any moment. She felt as if she were sinning deeply, as if she really were Lucifer plotting to discredit heaven and shirk her divine calling. For her dear little Catholic heart, the guilt proved immense. But the impulse to reach out to Raoul in her own small way felt too powerful, and no one interrupted her writing.

Once she had finished, she had fallen back asleep.

In her dreams, she was in the dressing room, singing with the voice, when suddenly hands seized her and bound her to a chair. Chords held her so tightly that she found it hard to breathe, and the voice kept singing. She called out to him to save her, but he kept singing his tantalizingly beautiful song.

When she woke, she found that even though tears streamed down her face she felt so much better-or at least better than her dream. Dressed in her warmest coat, she set out to post the letter to the vicomte herself and then attend her rehearsals at the opera house. Mamma Valeris would object, but Christine knew that she needed to at least attempt an appearance. She was in no place to begin behaving like a diva.

The moment she stepped out the door, Erik saw her. He had sped to her apartments in a panicked fury the moment that he determined that she was not coming to lessons. A million things had gone through his head; his heart had pounded so heavily at the worst of his thoughts-that she had run off with _him_. The terror and anger of that idea had driven him from the opera house to find her, a trace of her. He knew of where she lived, but he had no way to get in; of course, if he had been any other gentleman, he could have easily abated his fears by simply calling on her. But his mask made things so dreadfully complicated. His flesh coloured mask, one of many kinds that he kept, would only keep attention away if he walked the margins of the streets where no one really looked. And even if he made it to Christine's apartments unnoticed, he would have to peek into her window like a common fiend. Insufferable! So he waited across the street, watching for a sign of her.

After hours of lingering in the shadows, his patience was rewarded.

Christine, dressed in dark blue velvet and a blue mesh veil over her face and hat, came gingerly down the steps. He had never really seen her outside the opera house, Perros aside. More, he had not really seen her in the daytime. The light of the sun, something he shunned, only brought more beauty to Christine. No surprise. She was a child of the light.

She walked with fragility as if she feared the wind might blow her to pieces like piecrust. Erik felt vastly confused, and he hounded her every step, keeping a short distance, but just enough to avoid suspicion and attention. Now that they were both in the daylight, on the street, in the air, away from the opera house, Erik's heart twisted with longing that he had known but not so clearly or potently felt. So suddenly he wanted to speak to her like any other man, to walk up to her, bow, say, "Good afternoon, Mademoiselle," and offer her a flower from a stand. It was not enough to be the voice anymore. He wanted so badly to walk with her down the streets, with her little hand in the crook of his arm, resting there like a dove. He wanted to talk about the weather, the latest news from the paper, the gossip from social circles. He wanted to look into her face, knowing that she knew who he was and had not run away once she knew him. He wanted her to smile at him and to laugh at a clever joke that he made. He wanted a human life! The longing was so powerful that it took much of his strength not to run up to her and beg her to speak to him, to know him, to do something! She was so fragile and precious. It was no wonder that many loved her. She was meant to be loved.

He followed her as she took an unexpected turn; where was she going?

As Christine made her way to the post, she fumbled with her hand bag and did not see where she was going.

"Christine!" Raoul collided with her on the street-a chance encounter, yet not so surprising since it was close to the opera house.

Raoul, in his grey top hat and silver cravat, looked as if he had a multitude of questions for her: he tripped over his words,

"What happened...you...why did you...when..."

Christine, having collected herself from the shock of seeing Raoul so suddenly, merely smiled faintly and pressed her letter into his hand. Speechless, the vicomte looked down at the thin envelope and then back to her face.

"Good day." she said, skirting the boy and making haste for the market.

Raoul, poor boy, wavered on his feet as he decided whether to pursue her or open the note. He chose the latter, wandering off reading her words with a troubled yet fond expression: as if he might cry there on the street from love.

And Erik saw it.

His fury was wrought to its highest as he looked on the vicomte holding the lovely little letter from his Christine; she had clearly abandoned her fidelity. Certainly she had spent the morning penning the vicomte instead of coming to lessons. And the boy was such a fool! Erik did not know where to direct his anger. With a jealous convulsion, he watched Raoul amble away in the opposite direction to Christine; Erik muttered all manner of foul things as he glared at him. It would not do to murder a man in daylight.

When Raoul had turned the corner, Erik's gaze turned to Christine, but to his immense horror, she was no longer there. She had kept walking, and Erik like a fool himself had neglected to keep an eye on her.

Panic once more spread to his limbs: where was she? Where?

He could not rest till he had found her again! A strange mixture of dread and desire filled him as he pursued fruitless avenues in search of where she had gone.

"This will not do!" he panted, nearly sobbing. "Not at all."

Rationality found him soon enough, and he returned to the opera house to see that she was indeed there at rehearsals. His relief was followed by a dark thought: if he could bring her down to him soon, then he would never have to suffer this. If he could speak to her and tell her everything, explain his lie and his love, then she would surely have pity on him and perhaps love him like she loved the voice. If he could beg her forgiveness and only ask that she know him for himself then he might be able to win her heart and not just her soul. Of course, the question of his face would be difficult, but if he explained that it must be ignored, that the mask must ever stay, then surely she would begin to see him beyond all that. Surely she was good enough and merciful enough to pity him and love him despite his sins against her.

During rehearsal, she did not sing well as Siebel, but he put it down to her strain of cultivating a beautiful young lover. This simply would not do.

He needed to act soon.

His eye roamed to the chandelier, and a small smile came over his face. O yes! It would work so well with the threats he had promised the managers; the chandelier he had already rigged to fall at his will and in his time, at the right moment. He was waiting to display his retributive powers to them, and if the chandelier made a large enough catastrophe, he might steal away Daae, and no one would notice. Perhaps it was well after all that Christine would not be playing Margarita for this performance. She would be carried off to no one's real concern: the vicomte would be upset, but Erik would not keep her forever, merely a fortnight. That space of time would be enough to cultivate true loyalty and understanding, if not pity and love. Yes, he was sure it would work. If such a disaster happened, his devoted and faithful Christine (though a portion of his mind scoffed at this) would rush to the dressing room to see if the voice was harmed or vanished. And he would be there to take her.

Of course, she had incurred his anger at her infidelity, but it was not her fault in his mind. For Erik, the blame lay solely on the shoulders of the handsome vicomte who so easily seduced his little bird with his soft eyes and sincere smiles. No, once Christine knew Erik, surely she would see that despite the lie he was a man, just a man, one who loved her more than anyone would love her. He would carry her off for love!

And the plan worked.

She came rushing in, white as a lily, fear in her eyes, still dressed in her Siebel costume, a charming thing with a green brocade vest, linen trousers and buckled shoes. Her golden hair had fallen about her shoulders.

"Voice! Voice!" She cried out, in panic. "Where are you? Are you alright? O the chandelier fell! It has crushed someone! A woman has died! Shall we all die tonight? O it is awful! Where are you?"

She was in a fitful state. He began to hum. She heard it.

From the dark, Erik sang soft and full, directly behind the mirror waiting:

"He who believes in me shall never die. Come, rise, walk, live. He who believes in me shall have life everlasting."

The song ensnared Christine, and a moth to flame, she came. Easily, Erik pressed the trigger that he had labored tirelessly to perfect; the mirror slid into three parts, creating a kaleidoscope of light. Christine crossed into the darkness, looking as if she were ascending to heaven itself, when really it was the opposite.

But the mirrors closed; darkness overcame the music and the light. Erik heard and saw her grope around in the dark, calling out confusedly for the voice. He simply watched her, almost afraid, his heart pounding at the reality that they were within feet of each other: no barriers.

Then, with a firm hand, he grasped her wrist.

And Christine, the little lamb, made to scream, but his hand cupped her mouth, as her fright ripped away her consciousness.

For the first time, for the precious first time, Erik cradled her fainting form in his arms, holding her as if she were a treasure, a fragile beloved, a much desired thing.

"My dear," he whispered to her unhearing ear: "Forgive me."


	11. Chapter 11

Erik stood for a moment in the dark, remembering everything:

"I can only despise you unless you set me at liberty at once!"

Christine's abduction, or visit as it also could be termed, to Erik's dark house started out much like he had anticipated it would. He had refrained from speaking until she was safely ensconced in the sitting room of his house, deep in the earth, buried away from prying intruders. It would not do to have her scream. But when he had at last spoken to her-his first words of greeting-the truth of it all had come crashing down on her.

She had cried of course, and he had comforted her, explaining it all.

"I have loved you since I heard you, Mademoiselle Daae, and I saw that you were so lonely and sad. I could not let you die. I would not let the world lose an angel. I deceived you. I told you I was the angel of music. I am neither angel, ghost, nor devil. I am Erik. I...I spoke to you, and you so enchanted me. Forgive my actions. They were done out of love for you. You see, I do adore you. I despise myself, but I must love you. You are all loveliness. How could I help myself? How could I make myself known to you?"

"Yes, how? Why the mask?"

"You must never ask me that, nor ever try to see what is underneath."

He had thrown himself at her feet, his own tears coming now:

"Forgive me. I have destroyed your faith. I have trampled it utterly. But know that I have done so because I could not bear to be apart from you any longer. I could not bear to not have you know me as I am-not as an angelic being, but as myself. Forgive me. I could not help myself! You...I...I cannot help but love you, Christine." He cried.

And she stood like a beacon in the middle of his sitting room, glowing in the candlelight. Her lips were pale, her boy's costume slightly soiled from the journey underground. But above all, as Erik looked at her, her eyes sparked in a way he had never seen before. To him, she was so beautiful; he could deny her nothing. Lost in the joy of her presence and despising himself for his transgressions, he had hardly heard what she had said.

He simply looked at her.

"Did you hear me?" her voice angry. "You will take me back at once."

He snapped to attention:

"Yes, yes. Of course, my dear Christine. I do not wish to merit your hatred. Never. Forgive me...I ...I love you too well...I despise myself. Let me show you the way out."

As he rose, he regarded her with a piercing gaze, then his heart sank. She wanted to leave. He had not expected her to be pleased at his deceit. It would take more work to win her heart, to make her want to know him. It would take his music. It would take a miracle. And yet, Erik wanted to create a miraculous thing. He wanted her love.

"Well?" Christine raised an eyebrow and made for the door.

Erik smiled and looked at his shoes for a moment. Then, almost with a kind of shyness, he began to sing.

He sang not words-merely melody, a hauntingly beautiful song, one akin to the first song that he ever sang to her.

As he let his voice come near her, he saw her eyes lose their fire; she loved his voice: he could see that easily. Her mouth softened, and her brow smoothed from anxiety to a tranquil kind of rapture. Even though she had gained the door, she turned back and listened. All sense of fight had evaporated from her limbs, and as Erik dared to draw her closer with his voice, he saw the ghost of a smile. Despite all lies, he was still the voice. And she loved that at least.

Slowly, she came back to the centre of the room, listening, enchanted, bewitched. She walked straight up to him, looking him fully in the eyes, trying to see. He did not move. As if half asleep, her hand drifted to his chest, to see if he really were real. Her fingers touched where his heart pounded wildly. Then absently taking back her hand, she turned and sat down on the divan, listening rapt all the while.

He knew how to seduce the soul. She had long fallen prey to the trap of beauty.

And she stayed.

Indeed, his song became a lullaby as she drifted off to sleep, over wrought with the strain of the evening. The height of his delight came when he gathered her in his arms and gently laid her on the bed he had painstakingly procured for her. Though his heart raced as he looked on her, he quickly fled and closed her door. The angel needed to sleep. Things were progressing as he wished-as he had hoped.

The following day proved to be an utter disaster.

He had let his pride distract him as he sang _Othello_ with her; the delicious sound of their voices mingling so intoxicated him that he hardly noticed her approach and her dainty fingers creeping towards his mask.

When she had snatched it away, he had behaved quite indecently.

In the dark of the gallery, Erik recalled his words of fury, his vicious anger as he forced her to touch and scratch at his horrible face:

"I am Don Juan Triumphant!" He had roared at her. But his rage had fallen away to extreme grief; she had seen him, and she had ruined it. Now his entire plan would change, and he would have to become a monster to her. So vital was she now to his life, to his sanity, that now she had no choice. Now she would not love him of her own will. Now he had to force her. Now for wrath and ruin of his madness. If she had not seen him, then she could have been set free, and she would have come back to him freely, with joy even. But now. Now she herself had set her own fate; now she would rue the moment she ever longed to see more of his face, to truly know what lay beneath the mask. Such grief! Such utter sorrow in his heart overwhelmed him. He did not want to be a monster. He wanted to be saved from it-to be human and loved. But now it was a completely different game.

Yet, she had spoken softly, trembling but with an earnestness that he recognized as faith.

"Erik, if I shiver or tremble when I look on you, it is because I marvel at your genius."

He hardly believed her, but the gesture had been enough. She wished to pacify him; she was not running away, madly screaming.

And the days that followed only served to enrich the falsehood that she could love him for himself. She burnt his mask (though he had many others); she attempted to smile and talk with him, if only to keep herself alive. She tried to charm him.

"Do you read, Erik?"

"Yes." He had grown so shy.

"What have you read?"

"Everything."

"What? Everything?"

"Yes, everything worth reading that is."

She was at a loss,

"What do you like? What was worth reading?"

"I have read Dante, Petrarch, the great poets, the greek philosophers; they please me, though some be fools."

"I read Petrarch once."

"Did you?"

"Yes."

A pause. A painful one, where he merely looked at her, drinking in her face.

"I didn't quite understand one of them; sometimes poetic language is lost on me."

"Which one?"

"Soleasi Nel Mio Cor"

"Ah! I know it."

"Do you?"

"Certainly,

_She ruled in beauty o'er this heart of mine,_

_A noble lady in a humble home,_

_And now her time for heavenly bliss has come,_

_'Tis I am mortal proved, and she divine._

_The soul that all its blessings must resign,_

_And love whose light no more on earth finds room,_

_Might rend the rocks with pity for their doom,_

_Yet none their sorrows can in words enshrine;_

_They weep within my heart; and ears are deaf_

_Save mine alone, and I am crushed with care,_

_And naught remains to me save mournful breath._

_Assuredly but dust and shade we are,_

_Assuredly desire is blind and brief,_

_Assuredly its hope but ends in death."_

She looked down at her hands, quiet.

"Do you know what it means?" he asked with a deliberate intensity.

"Well, the poet is sad to be parted from his lady." Her voice quivered a little.

"Yes, quite."

"I see."

"Yes, Christine."

How quickly their conversations became uncomfortable for her. She preferred to sing, but they could not sing all the time. Sometimes talk was unavoidable.

Sometimes he took her strolling along the edge of the dark lake, inwardly rejoicing at her hand resting on his arm.

"How deep is the lake?" She asked.

"As deep as a mystery."

"What do you mean?"

"How deep does it look to you?"

"It is dark. I cannot tell. Is it a riddle?"

"Perhaps."

"Do you think we might walk above too? On the street?"

"No."

"Why?" As meekly as a terrified child.

"Someone would see."

"What if we rode in a carriage? No one would see you."

"Why are you asking this?"

"I...I don't know...I should like to see the night sky. It is so beautiful in Winter."

"You would run away."

"No. I would not. Why would I?"

"You are afraid of your monster of death."

"I am not afraid."

"Why is your hand trembling?"

"It is cold, Erik."

"It is out of the question."

"You do not wish to take a lady in a carriage-ride?" She hit a nerve.

"Erik is a gentleman. If his lady wishes, we shall ride...But on my terms."

"Of course."

He did not know that each night when he bowed and bid her a good night that she would close the door and attempt to keep her sobs silent. Her fear and anxiety had surpassed anything she thought possible, but it was all countered and tempered with an indestructible compassion in her heart. She pitied him as much as she feared him. And though she spent all her time in inward terror at his power, rage and madness, she also heard his heart; he poured it out to her enough when she let him. She saw that he was a poor man-poor in soul.

At each chance he got, he would speak of his great and tender love: how he would do anything that she wished. Often he was simply so full of joy at having her near and alive that it was enough to simply sit silent in the same room with her.

But he would not always linger; Christine found that he would compose often and impulsively. Sometimes, mid conversation, he would start and run to his piano to spend the rest of the afternoon there, working out the melody that he felt and heard.

So, the visit of Mademoiselle Daae had become an extremely complicated affair.

But it virtually reached its end when the carriage rode by Raoul in the moonlight and when Erik remembered the masquerade ball.

In the carriage, Erik had wrapped Christine in furs and lace:

"You shall not be cold while I live," He had tucked her in as if to bind her to the carriage itself.

She had tried to smile; he caught the passing expression and felt his breath hitch.

"Your smiles are sweet rewards, my dear." He said, leaning as close as he dared.

It should have gone smoothly, but the vicomte saw them, called out, and Erik had gripped the edge of the seat so hard that Christine thought his hands would break.

"It is nothing," she said softly.

"It is _not_ nothing!" He was so fierce with jealousy.

"You need not worry. I am still faithful."

"Dear child, are you?"

Christine saw murder in his eyes.

"It matters little. He is going away." She blurted with a tinge of panic.

"Where?"

"To the North pole."

"You know this?"

"Yes."

"Well, better to let the cold kill him." Erik mumbled.

"You need not fret." She lied so sweetly. "I am devoted to you."

He had stared at her and with his gloved hand had taken her little one in his own.

"Little song bird, your devotion is a start. I thank you."

Later that evening, the masquerade had sparked in his mind, and the time in the dark drew to a close.

"I shall escort you to the surface, Christine." He wept at her feet after bringing her tea.

"I shall come back."

"No you won't."

"Yes, I shall."

"Will you?"

"Yes."

"Swear it."

"I...swear."

Then a new different tone had come into his voice:

"Christine, I see all above. I know all. At your peril, do not stray."

She went pale.

"Do not fear, child. Here," he pulled out a gold ring. "So long as you wear this, Erik is your friend and he shall protect you. If you remove it, then you cannot be under my protection."

He took her hand and put the ring on her finger.

"O you need not fear, Christine. Simply be faithful." The statement proved more veiled than it seemed.

"When shall I return to you, Erik?"

His heart swelled.

"I shall claim you after the masquerade ball. Be ready to come to me at midnight."

"I will."

Erik recalled her tender little face as she looked at the ring with a blank kind of amazement. He smiled. His darling girl.

With a quick leap, Erik emerged in the gallery, fully dressed in his extravagant scarlet costume.

"Now Red Death shall stalk both the faithful and the fools." He said to no one in particular, "Maskless at a masquerade."


	12. Chapter 12

From behind the screen in Christine's dressing room, Raoul heard his beloved call out softly to another:

"I am here, Erik. I am here, but you are late."

She had been sitting in front of her table, her dear tired face in her hands.

She had tried to tell him-tried to explain the terrible situation, the danger, the sorrow, the horrible web in which she found herself. But Raoul had not yet understood; he, like Erik, had bubbled over with jealousy, leaving her isolated and drained in the interim. She knew that Raoul did not mean to be difficult; she loved him well enough to know that it would be better if he did not know anymore, or seek anymore than what was possible. Yet, she also did not want to be alone; she had wanted Raoul to know and to help her-to love her in spite of it all. As she sat in the stillness, waiting for Erik to claim her, she looked at her own reflection for a moment and inwardly commanded herself to guard Raoul.

"You must keep him safe at all costs, even if..." her thought drifted into a place she did not want to contemplate.

Surely it would not come to that. Surely Erik was not so mad as to murder someone. And yet...She had seen the terrible rage that burned just beneath the cold surface of his flesh. He may have been a chilled corpse outwardly, but inwardly, he was burning with powerful feeling-some, even most of it, dark in its core.

She thought of Raoul, his dear face, so pained and hurt only a few moments before. She did not want that face to fill with horror, dread, and pain-pain so much worse than his present heartache.

It must be worth the sacrifice.

She had to keep her dear boy at arms length; too much sorrow would result from anything more than that.

Then she had heard it, even before Raoul did: Erik's voice singing.

"Fate links thee to me, forever and a day."

Rising, she straightened her dress, a black and white gown of domino dots and velvet lining. Her mask lay discarded on the table; she would not need it where she was going.

So much had changed in Christine's heart; she remembered how the sound of the voice before had inspired rapturous faith in her spirit.

Such devotion! Such blindness.

Erik had played his part well, but she had swallowed the lie. Now, she felt so much older, as if an age of sorrow had taken its toll. And in the midst of it, she also felt deep shame; how could she have not seen the truth?

What had been clouding her judgement? She was young and foolish-or rather, she had been. Now she felt old, jaded, and haunted.

In her mind, the situation proved most grave. If she misplayed a single moment with Erik, then it could mean death-not hers of course. Erik would never kill the thing he loved, but he would kill the thing that she loved, especially if it was Raoul. A single miscalculation on her part could mean disaster. Her time away from the house on the lake had given her only that little perspective. She would have to weather it alone-as painful as it would be. For Raoul's sake, until he left in despair for the north, she would have to carefully navigate everything.

With a smile at once weary as it was beatific, she opened her arms to the sound of Erik's voice; it still had the power to charm her, even though she now knew to whom it belonged.

"Fate links thee to me, forever and a day."

She saw the mirror open, and with a breath she returned to the darkness.

"Good evening, my dear."

Erik was dressed as Red Death, an opulent costume, sumptuous. He had replaced his mask, whereas before he had walked round in full view of all with no mask at all, bringing the partygoers to awe and fear as he made his regal way through the crowd.

"Erik," Christine nodded, taking his proffered hand.

"May I say that you and your little black domino make quite the pair," a hint of hostility behind his civil tone.

"A chance choice." she remarked as he led her through the dark. His hand gripped hers painfully.

"Indeed," a sneer in this voice. "Regardless, you look charming. A lovely little confection of a dress, Mademoiselle."

She said nothing.

When they reached the stairs, she stiffened at the gaping dark.

"Frightened?" He looked at her, almost with delight. "The dark need not be all terror, Christine. The night is soothing. It doesn't try to be more than what it is."

"I cannot see the steps." His riddles did nothing to abate her fear. Her voice trembled a little.

With a sigh, he turned.

"Soon enough, you shall love the dark. It hides things quite well."

He took her up in his arms and carried her all the way to the boat.

As he walked with her aloft, she felt his heart pounding ever so quickly.

"Erik?" She asked before he set her down.

"Yes."

"Are you aright? Your heart is beating so."

Innocent girl. She didn't know.

For a moment, Erik stared at her, her white face, the dark circles under her eyes, the white gold gleam of her hair, the intricate lacings of her dress.

"My dear, a heart in love always beats so."

She went a shade paler, something that should have been impossible considering that she already looked like death. Turning to the boat, she felt sick and unsteady.

His hand, gloved in scarlet, held her as she settled into the craft, blood red against the white of her dress.

They kept silence the rest of the evening.

Erik brooded over the things he had seen at the masquerade-or rather the glimpses he had seen of his little white domino running from him hand in hand with the black. Yet, she had returned. He should have been satisfied and grateful. But he found himself resentful and angry.

In the morning, her beauty did little to quell his anger or ardor. Both became even more unravelled in him.

She had come out of her small room, dressed in a green dress that he had bought for her.

"Good morning," she said quietly.

He said nothing. He merely stared.

She writhed under his gaze and went to sit on the chaise.

For a moment, he merely stared, and she attempted to ignore the uncomfortable surveillance.

Then in silence, he came, knelt at her feet, and began to kiss the hem of her dress.

"Erik, stop. What are you doing?"

He sighed and looked up at her.

"Can I never make my Christine happy?"

"What is wrong?"

He said nothing.

"Erik, what is it?" Her voice went shrill.

"Nothing, my dear. Once you have breakfasted, we shall begin your lessons for today."

Her terror increased.

The few days that followed were strange.

Instead of teaching her in his usual manner, Erik, as Christine noticed, became more and more distracted. At times, he would stop mid-sentence, tear about the room in apparent frustration and pound at the piano as if it had sinned against him.

Once during lessons, Christine sang a portion from _Romeo and Juliet_ (Gounod was so in vogue).

"Amour, ranime mon courage," she sang, her eyes closed, gripping the back of the chair next to her.

Suddenly, she heard that the piano had stopped; her eyes opened. Erik had crossed the room and was standing directly in front of her, looming with burning eyes.

His breath came in deep takes, and his hand trembled.

Christine wanted to shrink away, to disappear, but she was pinned to the chair.

"Did I make a mistake?" she asked.

He said nothing.

"Did I displease you?"

At her words, a near sob escaped his lips as his hand flew to touch her arm. He was so close; Christine felt trapped; she could not meet his eyes.

"Look at me." He said in a near growl.

"I cannot."

"Look at me, Christine."

She raised her eyes, mortified.

"You see..." he muttered, hovering so close, electric with his shaking. "You see...what you do to me...you sing like an angel...and I desire you...like the devil..."

He took her hand and pressed it to his heart. She felt the pulse. Her eye fluttered down in fear.

"No...no, look at me. See me. Christine. There. You see what I am before you? I...I am utterly in your power..." He was drawing her to him, his masked face so close to hers.

In her mind, she scoffed; he spoke of her power, yet it was truly he who held the cards. It was he who held her to the point of pain. This was all such a dreadful thing. She had never dreamed her tale of the angel of music would turn to a nightmare.

"What are you talking about?" She asked with a whisper.

His eye flickered away from her mouth and back to her eyes, her blue eyes that glistened with terror.

As if she were suddenly burning him, he leapt back and fled, loudly locking the door of his chamber, leaving her shaking in the middle of the music room.

The next day, he came out:

"_Don Juan Triumphant_ has begun to take shape again, Christine."

He looked as if he had not slept at all; Christine had not.

"And I must work to bring it to perfection."

"Of course," she said quietly.

"It means that you must return to Mme. Valeris soon."

She tried hard to be non-committal in her reaction.

"Oh?"

"Yes. I cannot work and worry over you at the same time. Besides, Don Juan has a...dark quality...It would not do to have you near."

Christine shivered.

"So I shall trust you to her."

"But we will still have lessons, won't we?" She asked, attempting to look as winning as possible.

He came close and touched her cheek with his fingers.

"We shall have lessons, but once a week. My opera needs its time."

She sighed.

"Very well."

"And you will be a good girl, won't you?" He leaned down and whispered in her ear, his tones seductive.

"Yes, of course." She started; he was so close and so disturbingly tender all at once.

"You must keep your ring, Christine." His long finger stroked it and her hand, "Wear it, and all shall be well for it says that you are...under my protection."

"I shall wear as I have been."

"Yes," he mused still stroking the golden band. "Be sure you do. Dangerous things can happen, Christine."

He still lingered near her ear, breathing slightly unsteadily.

"Erik, what do you mean?" she attempted to sound rational and unafraid.

"I mean that the vicomte had better keep his distance; he had better go to the north pole and die there soon."

"Are you forbidding me to see him?"

"My dear," he smiled and caressed the ring again. "I am a gentleman. You may entertain whomever you will. But your heart, Christine. It must be true. I may not be an angel, but I am still the voice. I believe that I can trust you to be true. You have proved yourself often."

"Yes." She quivered.

"And you will not allow some sop of a boy to seduce you."

"Of course not. I am loyal to you, my teacher."

"Ah, yes, ...teacher...am I not more, Christine?"

She didn't know how to answer; what was he asking?

"Because I am no more than a man," he whispered. "a devil perhaps, but I desire the same as anyone else."

"What is that?"

He smiled at her innocence; it pained him, yet he could not unravel its charm over him.

"If you do not know by now, then you are a dear little fool." the nose of his mask bumped her cheek.

He straightened himself.

She somehow remained calm.

"You need not fret, Erik. The vicomte is not a threat. I have said he was a friend before, and so he is. But a friend is no threat."

"We shall see," he replied, returning to the piano.


	13. Chapter 13

Raoul eagerly came to her door as he had done everyday for the last few weeks.

The maid opened it and admitted him as she did each day. Christine waited bright eyed in the sitting room. Once the door closed and the maid retreated, Christine smiled, and Raoul came quickly to her side.

"My dear betrothed!" He took her in his arms as he had before, his courage growing everyday. Today he felt brave enough and sure enough of her affections that he kissed her cheek.

"Darling boy!" She held his face in her hands. "I am so happy to see you today."

"Are you? You have seen me everyday for the last few weeks since you returned."

"And each day is better than the other." She laughed, taking his hand. "Come, let us go to the garden. It is a beautiful day."

Like a man enchanted, he followed her, a silly smile of delight glowing on his face. He was so happy, so different from before. Directly following the masquerade, Raoul had sunk to a depth of true despair. He had heard and seen Christine return to the arms of Erik, that despised and dreaded mystery.

More, he had seen Christine disappear right before his eyes and heard her whisper of "poor Erik" to the air. His dear heart had pulsed with sore jealousy and selfish ache. Who was Erik? What was he that he had ensnared Christine so inextricably? And was Raoul not enough? To be sure he was young and foolish, but his heart was big, full of the compassion and life that only can come from youth. For a few days, Raoul had wallowed in loneliness and depression, refusing to be comforted, moaning and neglecting to eat. His brother had tried to reprimand the boy, but it had only brought on another deeper fit of moodiness. And when at last the vicomte had stopped feeling sorry for himself, he had thought of speaking to Mamma Valeris, to warn her; even if Christine would not have him or listen to him, he could at least save her from a deadly snare by soliciting aid. This Erik could not be a good man in Raoul's estimations; the consequences of his lies had already shown themselves on Christine's features. Raoul had not been able to forget her thin, pale face, so tired and so drawn. She looked ill in heart as well as body. And he wanted to save her-to see life and colour return to her.

But Christine had been there when he visited Mamma Valeris which only served to confuse him further.

The situation had seemed utterly hopeless for his poor loving heart. What was he to do? He loved her, but it seemed impossible. She wore a ring on her finger. She spoke with a haunted expression. What hope had he?

But then she had so softly suggested their engagement.

It had taken him by surprise utterly. Her face had turned gentle, a ghost of a smile at the thought:

"Be my secret betrothed of a month, before you depart. _That_ will harm no one."

And Raoul had been unable to refuse her-the invitation to momentary bliss and love drew him. She refused to tell him more of this Erik, much to his frustration, but the charms she offered compensated for the lack of knowledge.

Christine led him to a shady patch in the back garden, the sun warm and bright. Raoul's heart felt fit to open like a flower bud, bursting into full glorious bloom. Her gentle spirit and playful nature: it was what he had remembered and what he had dreamed.

The darling girl had let down her guard in the daytime, for Erik had declared that his Don Juan Triumphant needed more time, and though Christine met with him once a week, he seemed distracted during lessons. He was not focused; Christine even noticed the change. He was not so attentive to her reactions and words; his mind seemed elsewhere, as if he were thinking of many complicated things at once. More too, she noted that his hands were scratched in places.

"Erik, what happened?" She pointed to his hands.

"O nothing that concerns you yet, Christine." was his puzzling answer.

The rest of the time, Christine led a secret life-one she wished was real. Knowing that Erik was so preoccupied with his opera liberated her in small but vital ways. It meant that the trap-door lover was not watching her at all times; it meant that Raoul could come in daytime and delight with her undetected.

The feeling was dangerously soothing.

"Do you remember the songs Daddy used to sing, Raoul?" Christine plucked a flower as they sat on the grass.

"Of course," he smiled, taking her hand.

With his warbling voice, Raoul sang:

"Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing..."

Christine laughed a clear laugh of joy.

"Raoul, you cannot sing at all! Not a fillip!"

"I can!"

"You sound like a dying jaybird."

"Mademoiselle, your musical tastes are too high now to appreciate the lower arts."

"I know the low arts and that is considerably lower." She grinned. "I may be an opera singer, but I have not forgotten the old songs. You are tone-deaf, Monsieur." She smirked.

"Must I take lessons?" He leaned in and kissed a beam on sunlight that warmed her cheek.

"No."

"No?"

"No, you must sing exactly as you do. For I love you better that way." Her playful eye turned tender for a moment. Raoul's heart swelled.

They stared at each other.

Then Raoul kissed her mouth, a little off balance, a first kiss. When he pulled back, he saw her face bloom. A spark of true delight and surprise came to her eye.

And she kissed him back, fuller, softer, truer on the mouth, her tiny hand touching his neck, then gripping his jacket sleeve.

Youthful passions.

He kissed her suddenly with a wave of all the pent up fresh desire that he had harboured quietly and patiently for months, moving his lips over hers with a vigorous energy. Breath came in heavy gasps quite quickly, and Christine felt herself lean into him eagerly as Raoul pulled her body close in the shade of the trees. It was delicious to kiss him so-there in that pretty place. It was lovely to feel his hands on her face and waist, to taste his dear mouth, to feel him kiss her neck and hair.

With a breathless voice, Raoul muttered in sultry tones, "O Christine, I declare I shall not go to the north. Not now."

With a cry of fright, she pulled away and stood up.

"Raoul!" a sob caught in her throat.

The vicomte looked dazed, his lips pink from her ardent kiss.

"Christine...I...Forgive me."

"No!" She wept. "Forgive _me_! I cannot let myself unravel like that."

Raoul rose to come near. She backed away.

"No! You don't understand! It will kill you; to kiss you would put a death curse over your head. I am a cursed woman."

The sunshine had fled her face.

"Christine, please. I am sorry. I...What can I say?"

"Say nothing!"

He came near and touched her elbow; she in turn embraced him with tears.

"O! This is dreadful. My dear betrothed. I am so afraid for you. But I am selfish and cannot help myself. I cannot help but want you near me. I wish I loved you less, then it might be easy to turn you away."

"Turn me away?" Raoul cried. "Never! No! I...I shall not go to the North Pole now! Not now! I have said so. Don't cry."

"No! No! You don't understand!"

"What is it?"

"O you poor boy! You don't understand! And I cannot tell you. I dare not tell you!"

She wept into his shirt; he stood confused and grieved. The rest of the afternoon proved to be much more subdued; Christine played the piano and sang for him. He read her a story. they talked of little things, and then Raoul went home considerably disturbed.

"Come see me after rehearsal tomorrow, at the opera house," she said before he left, with a sad smile.

"Not here?"

"No. Come and see me there. I will not be here tomorrow, but I will need to see you."

When he came, she looked pale again.

"How are you today?" he asked quietly.

"I am well enough." she replied. They wandered and talked until they crossed in front of an open trap-door.

As if death itself waited there, Christine froze in fear.

"What is it? Are you afraid that _he_ is down there?"

"All things below belong to him."

"Well, then, shall we go down and pay a visit then?"

"Raoul, no!" She looked deadly serious.

"Why not? I am not afraid."

"You should be."

A noise came from below.

Both stood still, then Christine took Raoul away, demanding that he follow her to the roof, to Apollo's Lyre.

"We ought to be safe so high up." She muttered.

Raoul followed her faithfully, his eyes only for her.

And of course as chance would have it, Erik (who had been above to post a letter to the managers), now rose a fearful demon with glittering eyes up from the shadows under the trap door and followed the path of the fleeing lovers.


	14. Chapter 14

For hours, Erik sat as straight and as still as a statue, Christine's lost ring clutched in his hand.

His eyes stared forward, unseeing. He did not seem to breathe. He did not seem alive at all. Indeed, he looked dead. Since Christine and Raoul had left the roof, he had stooped down to pick up her ring that had so easily fallen off her finger, as if to underscore the treachery that he felt resided in her heart.

Underneath the lyre of Apollo, he silently sat, a deadly dullness coming over his eyes, the eyes that had before shone so viciously and vehemently. His thoughts flowed slowly, deliberately, with all the malice and danger of poison overtaking the body.

She had lied. She had deceived him as he deceived her. Utter betrayal, pure falsehood. He could never trust her again. He could never let her see the light of day again. She had trampled him to the dust. He, a fool, had poured himself out to her-_tried_ to make her see-but to no avail. She still preferred the boy.

"But I love you, Raoul. If I did not love you, would I give you my lips as I do now?" she had slid her arms around Raoul's neck and kissed him deeply under the stars, curling into his embrace with ease and delight. It was clear that she loved him. Her smile was so telling, more than her words.

And the revelation of it, the blatant truth, tore away the last shred of hope that Erik had felt. That very evening, he had finished _Don Juan Triumphant_ and was on his way to demand its premier in the manager's office.

But now he had proved a failed lover; he was no Don Juan. Cursed as he was, his hope, his life, had dissolved to ash before his eyes. Christine truly did love another. It broke the last strand of rational thought, of gentle consideration, of good will, of desire to even live.

But his feeling was more dangerous than despair.

She had played with him. She had lied and brought him so easily into her spell. He almost hated her in that moment, her failing still fresh in his mind. She, with her innocent eyes, her soft hands, her white skin, her angelic voice: all of it housed the soul of a false actress.

She had kissed the boy-willingly, truly. She herself had put her arms around him and held him with soft love.

A darker feeling than disappointment came over him as he brooded under the shades of night on the rooftop. In stillness, he had no tears: no crying, blubbering idiot. His stony expression under the mask looked as if he had died already.

It was no longer just the boy's fault: it was hers.

Then, Erik's thoughts turned to the cellars below him; he had anticipated this, though he had hoped it would not come to it. Christine had thought that he was solely working on his opera in the dark for the last month; to be sure, he had been. But he also had been hard at work at another plan: a disastrous one.

It had taken great pains to bring all those barrels down to his storage room: gun powder proved a great and heavy burden. The labour had scratched his hands, though he had tried to hide it from Christine.

When he worked, he had rationalized to himself: "A precaution. A perfectly innocent precaution. I will not need to... But O it would be so delicious to see them all go up in flames."

Now, with Christine's true nature before him, one word encompassed his future:

"Revenge."

He muttered it to the night air, blinking slowly for the first time in hours.

Looking down at the ring, he turning it in his fingers; it bore a friendly glimmer, winking at him in the dark.

"On them all," and a strange smile came to his face.

He would have her. She no longer had a choice in the matter-though as a gentleman he would let her have a nominal choice. Christine would never come willingly now; she was right to fearfully whisper to the vicomte:

"Take care, Raoul. If I go down with him again, I shall not return."

Erik would have to take her himself; it would be easy. Of course, the boy would surely come to try to rescue her after _Faust_. All the better. It would make the choice and the result all the more satisfying.

"The grasshopper may hop...jolly high." he whispered, pocketing the ring at his breast. "Poor little Daae, you know not how in danger you are now that your finger is naked to the night."

With eyes blank and dark, he rose and made his way calmly to the cellars and deeper still. Only a few adjustments to make below. With steady hands, he opened a hidden drawer and drew out two carved pieces: a grasshopper and a scorpion. He himself had made them for this occasion. And soon it would be time for their beauty to be appreciated.

The night passed swiftly, and dawn came with the echoes of voices in the caverns below the opera house.

Erik worked and tidied his house, singing softly to himself.

Guests soon.

It would not do to have the house in disarray; what would Christine think if her husband had his papers flung all over the place.

"Dear, dear," he muttered when he came across a hair ribbon of Christine's. "The girl can be so untidy, sometimes." He chuckled and gently placed it on the mantlepiece.

At length, the time for _Faust_ came.

Christine was cast as Marguerite, a role that suited her voice so perfectly.

From behind the glass in Christine's dressing room, Erik watched as his angel prepared to take the stage. Her hair, curled and flowing long down her back, shone in the gaslight; one of the maid's laced up Christine's deep blue dress, pulling the cords so that the dress fit her form in an intensely appealing way. Christine seemed calm, unnaturally so before an opera. Her eyes were steady; her hands still. She was not trembling...yet.

A stagehand called out,

"Two minutes, Mademoiselle Daae."

"Thank you." Christine replied.

She rose and turned away the maid,

"Give me a moment. I am coming."

She walked to the door, put her hand on the knob and took a breath.

Then with a turn of her head, she looked straight at Erik through the mirror.

"Tonight, Erik, I sing for you."

Then she closed the door behind her. He sighed.

As Erik listened to her below the stage in the dark, waiting, he willed his heart to turn to stone. She was still so beautiful, so earnest, so beguiling. She was beauty itself. How could he harm her?

He remembered her face, upturned in faith, as she listened to the voice sing to her of heaven's beauty. How simple it all had been then.

But now his own pain, it was half a century's worth of sorrow and hatred. For all her beauty, it did not quite remove the sting of his past anymore. Her innocence had once blotted it out. But now...

He was tired of it all. He wanted a wife, not a simpering student, and he wanted to be loved for himself. And he would get it or die. It was as simple as that.

Christine's final aria, divine in its own right, overtook the hearts of the audience. Heaven seemed to open for them as she sang. Her arms lifted high, and tears streamed down her face.

Erik could hear her tears in her voice: "Let me dry them for you, my dear little liar," he remarked. The climax of the song neared.

At her last glorious note, he pulled the lever that he had set. Above the lights flickered off, the trapdoor underneath Christine flew open, and the soprano disappeared from sight.

Erik caught her as she fell, an angel dragged out of heaven to the depths.

At first, she was dazed and confused. The sudden darkness shrouded her sight. What had happened?

But then she sensed her place in his arms, clutched to his chest as he sped through the dark to the cellars.

She gasped: "Erik!"

"Good evening, my dear. You sang very nicely," he sneered.

With terror and anger, she began to struggle.

"No, no, none of that," he pulled out a rag and held it to her nose. "You are coming with me. I am afraid that I shall have to alter your travel plans with the vicomte."

As she writhed, her eyes grew wide at his words, a deeper terror overtaking her mind.

Slowly her limbs became listless; Erik gathered her to his heart with curious delight and flew through the shadows, his precious, treacherous cargo drugged in his arms.


	15. Chapter 15

When she woke from her delirium, he was there, perching in terrible silence on the edge of her bed, watching as she struggled to open her eyes, a dark vulture.

With a fit of coughing, she sat up, dizzy at once. He slowly poured her a drink of water and held it to her lips. She hesitated then drank, still dazed.

Taking deep breaths, she gathered herself and remembered.

"Erik," She whispered.

"My dear, you shall feel better directly. Only drink more of the water."

She simply stared at him.

"Erik, what happened?" Her voice was cautious. He was so quiet.

"You don't remember?"

"I don't understand it."

"Ah. My dear, I shall enlighten you as to what happened." He sat straighter, his voice soundly deceptively calm, even cheerful. "Last night, I heard your lovely conversation with the vicomte up on the roof. You needn't turn so pale, Christine. You should know by now that I am everywhere. I heard your talk with the boy and found that you had made plans to run away from here, away from me: that he was to take you away. Naturally, this was distressing news for me. And of course, I had no intention of allowing you to leave me. Not at least without speaking to you first."

She looked bewildered beyond anything.

"So, I, knowing the underbelly of the stage and the trapdoors so well, knew that I could whisk you away as it were as easily as one might snatch up a piece of paper. Of course one stagehand was there, but he was so young; one can crush that like peanut shells under your thumb. From underneath the stage, I heard you sing, and I waited till the proper time. And now, here you are. Safe and sound, tucked away, my little songbird."

Though he spoke honeyed phrases, Christine knew better. He was beyond outrage. His gentleness, if gentleness it proved, was a ruse; she saw it in his pulsing neck vein; she heard it in the hiss of his voice as he spoke.

"Erik," she made to stand.

"No! No. Do stay seated for just a moment, Mademoiselle. I have brought you here for a reason, Christine. It is not all haphazard calamity."

He came near and knelt before her, grasping her skirt with his bony fingers; she felt sick.

"One must do things rightly, or at least attempt to" he muttered almost to himself.

Christine felt his hands wandering on her skirts, but she had no strength yet to push him off.

"Christine Daae, my love for you surpasses all things. You know this. I would kill for you. Marry me."

His cold hands groped for her own, a poor attempt at an affectionate caress.

At first, Christine could say nothing. Then, she began to tremble.

"What?" a mounting horror and dread in her voice.

"Marry me, Christine. Be my wife. I long so powerfully to be like everyone else. I long for a normal life. Can you give me this? Give me your love. Marry me. I know you can love me. I could make you happy-the happiest of women."

"Erik," Christine began softly. Her mind was a mess of anger, terror, and despair. She would never escape from here. What was she to do?

"Say yes, Christine. Be my wife. Say it." His fingers tightened on her own, binding with pain.

She let out a half moan and tried to release herself, beginning to struggle like a bird caught in a snare; suddenly, his fingers dug into her flesh.

"Say it! Christine, say it!" blood was under his fingernails.

She loosed one hand and flung her palm at his mask, slapping him with what vigor she could muster. A guttural cry escaped his lips. She had struck him so hard that his mask had loosened and was half hanging from his face.

"Now, my dear." His voice took on a mortifying tone, "You wanted so badly to see the face of your husband, did you? Well, darling, look on me. Tell me to my dead face that you will be my wife."

The mask fell discarded to the floor.

"Erik, Erik! Let go of me! Let go! It hurts! Let go! Please!"

"Come now, darling, you cannot be married in a common opera costume, can you? Come! Come! See what I have for you. See! Look. Look, dear. It is so lovely. You will die when you see it. Come. Look. There. See. I have placed it here, just for you. Your own wedding dress, Christine. You must put it on. One cannot have a wedding without a bride in white. And I shall have my little bride wear white. Come. Here, see. It is the latest fashion, I hear. There is lovely lace on the sleeves. Look! Look, Christine."

She still struggled to be free from his hold.

"Now, Christine. You need to be a good girl. If you struggle, I shall have to help you put this dress on, for you shall wear it."

"No!"

"No?"

"I will wear it. Only let me go, leave me here, and I shall put it on."

He stroked her hair with his hand:

"There. Easy. And you shall look lovely. I shall wait for you in the sitting room. The wedding mass I have prepared for us is simply gorgeous, Christine. Wait till you hear it. There, I shall close your door. Don't be long, dear."

Once the door closed, Christine heard the key grind in the lock.

"O dear God." She shook violently, mindlessly undoing the laces of her costume and slipping into the white dress that Erik had bought her. Breath came in deep gasps. She was near tears.

Was he really going to make her marry him? What was there for her to do? Where was Raoul? Was he safe? What was to be the endgame? How could she thwart the plan?

Thousands of thoughts filled her head.

She had been a fool, a pitying fool to stay for the performance. She should have known he would take her. Now it was over. He would marry her.

"O God! Help me! O God." She quivered uncontrollably.

She prayed, but it did nothing to calm her heart. If Raoul dared to come down here, then he would already be dead. The way down was perilous. Only Erik knew the way. What was left?

The last of the white buttons slide into place; she surveyed herself in the mirror across from her bed. The white washed out all her color, and her hair fell over her shoulders in messy braids, undone from the costume.

"Dear heaven! I look dead!" She began to cry then, trying to stay quiet. "O papa! Save me! I am so frightened! O God!"

The immensity of her failings, her ignorant and innocent dealings with Erik, came crashing down around her. She should have known. She should have! But it was too late. He would keep her here, dead to the world, alive only to him.

"Better to die at my own hand!" She whispered on an impulse. Like a wild animal caged, she eyed the room; nothing would aid her. Frenzy: desperation claimed her. She took a running leap towards the glass in her mirror.

"Let the image die!" She thought as she hit the glass, grazing her head, blood quickly running down the side of her face.

He was there almost instantly: lifting her from the floor, cradling her with soft words, then tying her to a chair in the sitting room.

"My dear, my darling," He looked at her with sad eyes. "Is death really so preferable? Am I so hideous? I love you so. How can I help myself, Christine?" Gently, he wiped away the blood from her face with a wet cloth.

She looked at him, tears and pity mingled.

"Erik, this...this is not love."

"Not love?"

"No...it is not."

"Christine, it is not love to care for you, to keep you alive when you would end your days brutally? It isn't love to desire your company and to delight in your voice and presence?"

She groaned, but he continued.

"What have I not done, Christine? Why is this not love most exquisite? Is it not love to think of you to distraction? To worship you? To want you...near." He brought his maskless face close to her cheek. She shrank from him, not in fear, but pain.

"Yet, you still fear me." he remarked, tracing her bound wrist with his finger. "My little sweetheart, you look so lovely in your dress. Now it is spoilt with blood. Why fear me? I am your slave."

"Erik, let me go."

"No!"

"Erik, please. You must let me go."

"Perfect love casts out fear!" He spat back. "You said it, Christine! You did. I remember everything you ever said. Love me, and you need not fear."

He brushed her hand with his cold fingers.

"All I ever wanted was to be loved...for myself." He muttered, half sobbing. "Can you not even give me that?"

"Erik, please!"

She was crying.

Then a low buzz sounded.

"Ah! Darling! We have a guest! Is it your lovely vicomte? I must go see who it is. Don't go away now, my dear."

He bowed to her and left, leaving his front door wide open.

In near defeat, Christine wept.

Then, from nowhere, a voice called out to her: a voice that sounded like an angel, but Christine had learned not to trust angels' voices.

"Christine!"

She raised her head. What? Was Erik playing a trick? There was no one in the room but her.

"Christine! Are you there? Christine!"

Then her heart pulsed with joy and pain:

"O Raoul!" She answered back.


	16. Chapter 16

None of them would be able to forget that night.

"Erik, I have turned the scorpion!" She had said loudly.

She stood by the small sculptures, a trembling lily in white, a few stains of blood running down her dress.

"I have turned it. I shall marry you. Let them go."

Erik turned to look at her; he had been on his way to pull the lever to ignite the powder:

"Pardon?" he said, taken aback; he had been so caught up in relishing the idea of death, and dying clinging to her with desperate arms, that the possibility that she might turn the scorpion had slipped his mind completely.

"I have turned it, Erik. Come. Look. I will marry you."

He came, cautious, to examine them.

"You have turned it?"

"Yes."

He looked down at the shining back of the scorpion.

"You wish to be saved? You do not wish to die with me?"

"No. I wish to live. I wish to be saved. I want to save them."

He looked at her.

All fear had fled her face. She was smiling, even. A quiet calm had descended over her. She was more beautiful in that moment than ever he had seen her.

"You are sure?"

"I am quite sure, Erik."

"You will marry me? Even now?"

"Yes. I have said I will."

"You will?"

"Yes."

With a compulsive spasm, his hand grasped hers.

His breath caught. He stared at her face, transfixed by her transcendent beauty.

"Bless you," he whispered, pulling her near. She did not resist. He nuzzled against the side of her neck, quivering.

"Erik, you must get them out of there."

The cries from the torture chamber continued as the heat from the wall increased.

"Erik, as my husband, you must do this for me. You must save them too."

Still lingering near her ear, delighting in her closeness, he mumbled, "But they are worth nothing."

"Even if they were, I would still have you free them. Go and save them. If you love me, then you shall do this one thing for me. I shall ask no more of you than that. Save them."

As if struck by an electric current, he stood taller, and strode to the lever to release the water. The heat began to subside; the waters rose.

"Are you sure I may not let them drown?" he sounded like a child playing with ants in the summer.

"No, Erik."

And they did not drown. He pulled them out, Raoul scarcely breathing as he lay on the carpet.

With steady feet, Christine came near and knelt down by him, brushing his hair with her fingers, setting to work at securing his life. With her little hands, she pumped his chest; water spurted up out of Raoul's mouth and over her dress. She said nothing, but her eyes glowed with deep love as she looked on the face of the vicomte. Erik brought the Persian, laying him on the chaise near the hearth. Then Erik merely stood back, watching his little fiance move her hands over the boy.

Raoul stirred and moaned; his eyes fluttered open for a moment. He struggled to regain his breath. With mournful eyes, he looked at Christine. Then he remembered everything; great tears came, and Raoul began to cry softly. She had sacrificed herself. His Christine! That much was clear; Erik would never have let any of them live unless she had done so.

"You should have let me die, Christine." he whispered horsely, gazing at her with wide eyes.

She smiled.

"Never."

"Why?"

"This is what love does." She whispered quickly with a resigned smile.

Erik did not permit the conversation to go beyond that. He had packed up the weak vicomte and left him in the Communist's dungeon, safely and securely trapped.

As gentle as a lamb, Erik had placed Raoul on the ground in the dark. With a strange aspect, he merely stared at the boy.

Raoul's face, so youthful and carefree before, now bore the first scars of heartache, of a troubled soul. He was no longer just a boy. For a moment, Erik merely looked at him as if he were an alien specimen. Then, in a smooth movement, Erik bowed low in reverence to the vicomte and swept away into the shadows, leaving the man to wake disoriented and despairing.

Once all the visitors had been dealt with, Erik returned to his sitting room to find Christine sitting quietly reading a book. Her dress, still dirty and torn, hung about her frame loosely, appearing as frail as paper. She had not attempted to change or to style her hair. Her long golden locks flowed freely around her shoulders and down her back. She was living and breathing. Alive.

"O there you are." She said, rising.

"Yes," his voice trembled, as if he feared her.

"Did you leave them safe?"

"Yes."

"Good. Thank you, Erik."

She smiled, a real smile.

He moved toward her, as shyly as a child, mortally afraid, but desiring all the same.

She let him come.

With his breath coming in deep gasps, he came close, his hand reaching out for her cheek. Stepping in, she closed the gap and found herself in his arms so suddenly.

"O Christine...wife." He whispered.

She put out her forehead, and he kissed her there.

"Did you mean what you said about being my wife?" he shook, violently.

"Yes."

"Truly?"

"Truly."

He kissed her forehead again, and her cheek. Her eyes were closed.

"Why Christine?"

His kisses trailed lightly over her face.

"Why?"

"Yes. Why?"

"The truth?"

"Always."

He hovered over her mouth, gazing at it, wondering if he should dare to press his lips there.

"I did it for love, Erik."

Swiftly, he covered her lips, her words, with his own, letting out a soft groan as his mouth moved over hers. It was wonderful to kiss someone.

Tears were coming down her cheeks. With a swift flick of his fingers, his mask fell to the ground, and he pressed his face to her tears, letting them run into his own.

She did not run.

But then, in a moment, he knew. Love.

He loved her.

For the first time, Erik truly loved Christine. It suddenly became so clear in his mind, all the rage and jealousy dispersing.

This was love: not the kiss, not the terror, not the endless nights of anger and hatred. Love was this: this sacrifice.

In awe, he fell to his knees, kneeling before it, clutching Christine's waist, weeping into her dress. His heart shattered as he kissed her stomach.

He sobbed out, "O the world moves for Love!"

Christine attempted to calm him.

"Hush, you need not cry. Why are you crying?"

For a moment, he could not be soothed.

"Christine...I...Christine..." was all he could manage, "I... love you. I do."

"I know."

"No...no...I love you..."

She did not understand.

"Yes, I know."

"No...hear me...I love you...Christine, you may go... Leave me... Go back to him."

A moment of silence, with Erik pressed to her as if his life was bound to hers.

"What do you mean?" She asked quietly, touching his cheek with her hand.


	17. Chapter 17

A voice from the night:

"Turn the key, my dear. To the right."

She caught her breath. If this was that last time to hear his voice, she would have him say it.

"Say...Say my name." She whispered, still with her back turned. "Bid me goodbye."

Silence.

Could he not bring himself to say it? After all this time?

Silence in the dark.

Then...

"Christine..."

And her fingers turned the key, the door flung open, the light flooded her eyes, and Raoul stood there, still haggard and damp, his clothes ripped. An hour earlier, Erik had released the vicomte and had told him of the plan: to be waiting at the entrance at the Rue Scribe for Christine to be delivered unto him. He had not revealed himself to the vicomte: only a voice in the shadows.

"Monsieur Vicomte, come to the Rue Scribe entrance at seven o'clock this evening. Christine Daae will be waiting for you there."

"What? Erik? What do you mean?"

"Monsieur, I mean that she is coming to you, and I am personally seeing that she is safely placed under your care."

"You are letting her go?"

"...Yes."

And Raoul, scarcely believing his ears, had done little to react; he had simply flown as quickly as possible to wait at the appointed place.

When Raoul saw Christine, he cried out, rushed to her, gathered her in his arms, and with a gentle sob, strained her to his heart.

"O my love!" he whispered.

Christine felt tears stinging her eyes; her lip trembled as she tightly clung to Raoul. With a tender smile, she kissed him.

Erik watched, quietly, with tears, love, and shame welling up inside.

It was over.

After a moment, Raoul turned to look at Erik; their eyes locked, not quite in hostility. Too much had passed for it to be blatant hatred now. Raoul looked at him with a kind of understanding; they both loved her more than life.

"Monsieur," Raoul said with a weary voice, "thank you."

Erik said nothing; he merely looked on in silence, tears streaming unnoticed behind his mask.

Christine had her face pressed into Raoul's jacket as if she no longer wished to look at the world or anything ever again. Her shoulders trembled.

"Christine, let us go. The carriage is here. Come."

"Yes," she whispered. "Let us away."

With a quiet haste, Raoul and Christine made for the carriage, turning their backs on the man in the mask.

But Christine felt a gentle finger tap her elbow before she could step into the carriage.

"Christine," Erik had stepped after her into the street.

She turned, not in fear, but utterly spent, her eyes full of tears. His voice.

"Christine, here." Erik pulled out the ring from his pocket. It still glittered warmly. "Take this...as a wedding gift."

Christine took it in her hand, looking at it with a tender expression, then back to Erik's masked face.

"Erik, ..." she began.

"Just wear it until I am dead... You shall know when I am gone; you shall feel it... Then all I ask is that you return the ring to me; put it on my finger so that I may be buried with it...as I have explained to you before. It is the only thing I ask of you...If you would be so kind to a man who has done you so much wrong...I dare not ask you to forgive me."

He hung his head in sorrow.

Christine gazed at Erik with a full heart, a small smile through her tears. Then she quickly threw her arms around him, embracing him fully in the street. From the carriage, Raoul looked on with a quiet expression: no jealousy, only awe. Now there was no room or place for wicked feelings.

Christine felt Erik shiver as she pulled away at last from their embrace:

"It is all forgiven... All of it..." her voice on the edge of a sob. "And I shall do as you request."

"Thank you," he whispered, retreating again into the shadows. "Now go."

With a slow step, Christine entered the carriage and grasped Raoul tightly, not letting go until they reached the house of Mamma Valeris. Raoul merely held her, letting her cry, saying nothing, simply sitting in wonder.

And Erik, who felt increasingly weak and whose breathing had become more and more labored, went to visit the daroga.

Some weeks later, Christine, accompanied by her young husband, came to the opera house, early in the morning in the middle of the week. They were dressed inconspicuously so as not to attract attention from any who might be lingering; they had a ship to catch that evening bound for Sweden, and it would not do to have anyone see them.

The night before, La Carlotta had given another performance of _Carmen_, and the general consensus was that it was high time she retired; to be sure, her voice was still as fine as ever it had been, but her stage presence began to lack a certain believability. The public was getting tired of seeing her flounce around the stage. Indeed the public had been spoilt by Christine; they wanted more of her, but alas she had utterly vanished. People still inquired after Mademoiselle Daae, wanting to plumb the mystery of her disappearance at the end of _Faust_ that night. An official inquiry had turned up little to no information on her whereabouts, whether she was dead or alive. No one knew anything at all. Most preferred to romanticize the disappearance as that the angels in heaven claimed her as their own-a voice too pure for earth's ears. Those who had been there that night remembered it as the strangest and most beautiful thing they had ever witnessed: the young soprano vanishing from the stage, as if she really were Marguerite, and that earth had no more gravity to hold her soul.

To add to it, a whole other level of mystery was in the vicomte's simultaneous disappearance. No one of his class knew where he had gone; even Raoul's brother knew nothing. Rumors flew about that he had taken up with one of the ballerinas and was in hiding from the shame of it; others thought that he and Christine had run away to England or to America, depending on who you talked to. The stories were extravagant and ridiculous as rumors usually are.

The truth of course never really came to light because only a few wash-maids saw the couple enter the opera house by the Rue Scribe entrance.

No one saw Christine and Raoul duck into a dark passage and make their way to the cellars and deeper still.

No one heard them whisper in reverent tones as they crossed the lake to the house that stood empty and soulless.

No one but the vicomte saw Christine's grief when she saw the body of the man lying there already laid out in a coffin for them, nor witnessed the gentleness with which she placed a ring on the cold finger, muttering "Poor Erik."

And no one knew how they carefully took the body up to the first cellar where a low lying grave awaited them nor knew how they quietly and silently laid Erik there, covering up the coffin in the earth under the opera house.

They lingered there, holding hands like the dear children that they once were, shivering under the weight of unspeakable feelings.

Then Christine sang softly a lullaby, her voice quivering all the while:

"Sleep in the glade where the wishing tree grows;

Starlight shall guard you when you're far from home.

Dream of things lovely while river song slows;

My love shall keep you safe."

Of course, she could not have known the poignant symmetry of her choice-the song that first caused Erik to love her.

She would not ever know that.

Some things are better left to their rest.

**Special thanks to all of you for your encouraging words.**

**~Sarah **


End file.
